


Silver Blood

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ancient Prophecy, F/M, Gen, Harmony - Freeform, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Multi, Post-War, Romance, canon-divergent, dramione - Freeform, forgotten history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 23:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17293310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: Voldemort falls, yet the dark is victorious. A horrific twist of fate lands Hermione at the heart of a long-forgotten prophecy, known to only a single living soul. Harry is desperate to save her from a cruel end & Draco must decide how much he is willing to sacrifice for a chance at redemption.





	1. The Failing of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older fic of mine, and it's not exactly a favorite out of all my own writing. So if you notice the writing seems a little less polished than what you've come to expect from me more recently, that's why.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no money from the creation or publication of this story.

**Chapter One**

The Failing of the Light

Hermione screamed, thrashing her legs, but Fenrir held her easily, one hand pinning her wrists above her head. Clamping her lips together, she angled her gaze to the unicorn, fallen beside her.

His terrifying words from only a few minutes earlier—had this really all happened so quickly—echoed through her skull. Not spoken to her,  _about_  her, as though she was not even present.

Like she was an object.

* * *

_"Bellatrix said I could have her. Well, now I'm making good on that."_

_He held her by a hand gripped into her hair, so tight she thought he might tear her scalp from her head. Each time she attempted to move, he gave her a quick, yet violent, shake. If only he hadn't gotten close enough to snap her wand in two, but he'd sneaked up behind her during the last moments of battle. She never had a chance to react._

_The wizard, whose name she did not know, only smirked, his gaze flicking over Fenrir's_ prize.  _"Whatever_ are _you going to do with her?"_

_Hermione tried to turn her head, to look around. The werewolf responded instantly, shaking her again and she screamed behind clenched teeth._

_"I'm going to turn her into my pet."_

_If she hadn't already been trembling from pain and exhaustion, she was certain his tone, a stomach-turning mix of joy and savagery, would have sent a new jolt of shivers through her._

_"Going to bite her, are you?"_

_Fenrir chuckled. "Eventually." He leaned close pressing his face against the side of her throat and inhaling deeply. That this made her scream again only drew another laugh from him. "I'm going to make sure she's good and broken, first. I'm going to make her—" he shook her once more, enjoying the sound of her cries—"dependent on me. She's going to think I'm her whole world when I'm done with her."_

_The wizard stepped closer, trailing the tip of a finger down her cheek. "Well," he said, amusement lacing his words as she cringed at his touch, "this is one_ is _feisty. How you gonna break her without killing her or driving her_ too _mad?"_

_Fenrir glanced over his shoulder, into the depths of the Forbidden Forest. "I got an idea, don't you worry 'bout that."_

* * *

A tear escaped, running cold along her temple as he reached over to cup his free hand beneath the dripping gash in the poor creature's throat.

"I don't know why you think this is going to do anything," she whispered, her words hurried and trembling as she tried to reason her way out of this. "Drinking unicorn blood only-only curses you if  _you_  killed the unicorn. You killed it, not me!"

He uttered another of his unsettling, bestial chuckles. "Natural magic's not that particular. If the unicorn has been slain for its blood, then the blood carries the curse.  _I_  am going to keep you alive until I chose to bite you, or kill you."

Hermione fought back a whimper as she let those words play through her head once, twice, looking for  _something_ , but her mind was too tired; she could barely think straight. She watched him pull his arm back, watched the glint of thick silver liquid draw nearer.

"And you  _will_  be grateful."

Folding her lips inward, she turned her head, eyes squeezing shut.

"C'mon pretty," Fenrir cooed mockingly, "open your mouth, or I'll  _make_  you open it."

Inhaling, deep and shuddering through her nostrils, she shook her head.

"Have it your way," he whispered.

The elation in his guttural voice horrified Hermione. He  _enjoyed_ the idea of having to force this upon her.

With a deep, growling chuckle, he lowered his head as he brought his cupped hand close to her mouth. "Oh, I'm going to have fun with you."

The feeling of Fenrir nuzzling his face against her breast made her skin crawl and she shivered in revulsion. He pressed so close that she could feel through the fabric of her shirt and bra as he opened his mouth against her.

He closed his jaw slowly, biting down on her. Her clothes would keep him from breaking her skin too soon, and he pressed his teeth down harder, and harder still.

Again she thrashed beneath him, muted whimpers working out of her throat. His teeth clenched around her, sending shocks of pain through her and she could no longer hold back a scream.

* * *

"No, no,  _Ron_!" Harry pleaded in a whisper, shaking his best friend by the shirt. He'd dragged Ron away from the heart of the battle, out of harm's way, but now he worried that the very act of moving Ron had only hurried him toward death's door.

Ron opened his eyes slowly, the effort exhausting. "It's okay, Harry." His voice was low, but gentle. He sounded like an old man ready to impart wisdom, Harry thought. "We lost, that's all. We always . . ." He drew a ragged breath. "We always knew we might."

"It wasn't supposed to turn out like this," tears clogged Harry's throat, he was still reeling from watching Ginny's body hit the ground. "Voldemort's gone, we were supposed to . . . ." He didn't even know what to say; didn't know what was supposed to have happened instead, only that it shouldn't have been  _this_.

His face pulling tight with pain, Ron slid something into Harry's fingers and then closed his hand around his friend's. "But it did turn out like this," he said softly, his eye drifting closed. "Hermione's still out there, somewhere. You have to find her."

Ron's fingers slipped away and Harry found himself holding the deluminator. "Ron, no," he said, shaking his head, unwilling to believe what was happening. "Please, you can't—"

"Promise me you'll find her."

Of course he'd find Hermione. He'd find her even if Ron wasn't asking . . . even if she wasn't the only one he had left, now.

Harry sniffled, lifting his gaze from the object in his hand to his friend's face. His friend's still,  _so_  suddenly lifeless face. Sinking his teeth deep into his bottom lip, his eyelids drifted down, forcing tears free to roll down his cheeks.

"I promise," he whispered, his throat constricting.

"I can't find his body."

Narcissa Malfoy's tear-thickened voice met Harry's ears and he immediately shrank back against the wall. Harry gave himself a quick shake, regaining his bearings. He risked rising up on his knees to peer around the crumbling stone.

"But you're certain you saw what happened?" Lucius asked, frantic, yet sounding oddly stronger than he'd seemed when he'd been running through the battle earlier, screaming for his son.

"Yes! Yes," her words rushed together. "I  _saw_ the killing curse strike him _,_ Lucius."

Lucius' eyes closed for a moment and he inhaled deeply. When he opened them again, he squared his shoulders and stood straighter, holding his head high.

He looked like a man with renewed purposed, Harry thought as he watched the impossibly quick transformation. Suddenly, Lucius Malfoy was again the proud, arrogant creature he'd been before Voldemort had broken him.

"We  _will_  find his bo— we will find  _Draco_ , Narcissa, but first," he smoothed his hair back and stepped over to a fallen wizard, extracting the wand from the corpse's hand. " _First,_  we will make the name Malfoy mean something, again."

He turned to those of Voldemort's ranks still standing, scattered as they were around bodies and debris. "Death Eaters!"

Harry realized with a start what was happening. Lucius had calculated the options left to him now that his son was dead, and his Dark Lord was no more, and chosen his next move carefully.

The dark wizards and witches glanced around at one another before gathering close.

"Comb the castle. Any survivors hiding shall surrender or die!"

Harry sank back down as triumphant cries rang out, safe in the knowledge that there were no survivors in the castle to kill—everyone had fled or capitulated, already, and joined the dark. He couldn't linger any longer.

Shaking his head as he blinked a fresh wash of tears from his eyes, he grabbed his fallen friend's shoulder one last time, gave it one final squeeze, and took his chance, bolting off into the shelter of the Forbidden Forest.

He made it as far as he dared and ducked behind a tree, catching his breath. He wanted to break down, wanted to drop to his knees and beat his fists against the ground until they were bloody, wanted to cry until his body dried up and blew away like dead leaves.

But he didn't have the luxury, not now. Hermione was out here, somewhere. And if anyone would think of a way to survive, it was her. Harry looked at the deluminator.

He knew Ron probably hoped it might lead him to Hermione, but Harry's wasn't so—

A scream tore the air, one he recognized all too well. He'd never forget the sound of it echoing to him through the floor of Malfoy Manor.

"Hermione!" Drawing his wand, he was off and running again.

* * *

Fenrir's hand covered her mouth and Hermione gagged as the thick, metallic fluid spilled down her throat. His fingers slid away from her lips as he loosened his jaw and raised his head.

The blood seared and chilled, all at once; her stomach icing and roiling, instantly. She struggled in his grip, but her strength had drained out of her by now. She thought distantly the blood had something to do with it—that ingesting the precious, but desecrated liquid was doing something to her body, already. But she tried to fight him, kicking and shifting beneath him.

Another scream tore from her as he shook her again. The moment her voice died away, she heard the crackling zap of a wand strike.

His body jerked and he let out a growl. He raised up a little, looking over his shoulder, his grip on her wrists slacking.

Hermione took advantage of Fenrir's distraction and rolled out from under him, immediately disoriented from the action.

The werewolf returned his attention to Hermione, expression livid as he made a grab for her.

_"Petrificus Totalus!"_

Fenrir's body locked and he fell onto his side. She managed to scramble away just in time to miss his impact.

The voice that had shouted the spell seemed, in that moment, like the most amazing sound she'd ever heard in her life. "Harry?"

She sounded so weak, he thought, terrified he was too late as he darted toward her. Harry watched as she slowly, clumsily climbed to her feet. As she lifted her head to look at him, he saw the smear of silver across her lips. His gaze shot from her face, to the slain unicorn and back.

Tears streaked her dirt-smudged cheeks as she murmured, "It wa— it wasn't my fault. He forced me. He . . . ." Hermione blinked sleepily and shook her head before falling to the ground.

"Hermione!" He was beside her in an instant, gathering her into his arms.

Her eyes closed, she mumbled, her words barely intelligible, "It wasn't my fault, I tried not to . . . I tried . . . ."

He hugged her close, rocking lightly. "Shh, it's going to be okay, Hermione." He didn't believe his own words, everything was  _wrong_ —and she didn't even know about the deaths of Ron and Ginny, yet. She was not in any condition to hear such terrible news.

Harry leaned back a little, looking into her face. He'd never seen Hermione Granger appear more fragile than she did right then. "I'll find a way to help you," he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers."I promise you, I  _promise_  you, I won't let you die on me." He knew she didn't hear him, she'd fallen unconscious, her breathes soft and shallow, but he needed to say it, all the same.

Shifting her gently, he raised his wand, pointing at Fenrir. " _Obliviate,"_ he said, his voice quiet, but strong as he stole away all traces of Hermione from the beast-man's memory.

As the paralyzed Fenrir stared blankly past them into the forest, Harry realized that he wanted this creature to suffer. Setting aside his wand, he cupped a hand into the blood pooled beneath the unicorn's wound and reached out, pouring it over Fenrir's lips.

"Hope you enjoy your half-life," he whispered in an angry hiss as he took back his wand, pulled Hermione against him and stood.

As he began to walk, deeper into the heart of the forest—perhaps any surviving centaurs might offer them shelter—he felt shaken by how silent the place was. Everything that roamed here was either dead, helping scour what was left of Hogwarts, or hiding. He halted as a numb realization struck him. He could not seek the centaurs. They would not understand, they would see the silver blood on Hermione's lips and believe she'd turned dark; that perhaps she'd been dying and drank of the unicorn's wound willingly.

He rested his back against a tree and looked up into the darkened network of leaves and branches over their heads. He couldn't do this alone, but he feared bringing more danger to any surviving friends who might be hiding.

Did they truly have no one?

The conversation between Narcissa and Lucius came back to him. Draco's body hadn't been recovered. Harry thought for certain he knew the moment Narcissa had mentioned, only Draco hadn't been the one struck by the killing curse. The spell had missed him by barely a few centimeters, though, striking a Death Eater who'd run up on him.

Draco was from an old, pure-blood family, raised by dark wizards. He'd been part of Voldemort's inner circle, whether he'd liked it or not. He probably knew things, useful things, that he wasn't even aware he knew, or at least might have access to information that could help him cure Hermione.

And Draco did still owe them for saving his life.

Harry swallowed hard, green eyes drifting closed.  _If_  he was correct and Draco Malfoy's body wasn't in the castle, somewhere.

Hermione stirred in his arms, giving a pained whimper before she settled down again.

He curled his arms, holding her to him, but freeing his hands. With very little idea if it would work, and feeling ridiculous despite both their dire circumstance  _and_  all they'd been through, he held up the deluminator in one hand, and his wand in the other. " _Lumos_."

Clicking the deluminator, He allowed it to steal the spot of light. "Please, please. We need to find Draco Malfoy. Show us the way." Certainly he was improvising on how the device had led Ron to Hermione, but neither of them had such a connection to Draco—thought, admittedly, Harry did once have suspicions about the way Draco looked at Hermione—so he was supplementing the light, giving the strange little thing as much aid as he could think to provide.

He clicked it open and the ball of light shot out, bobbing a few meters ahead of them.

Harry nodded, once again shifting Hermione in his arms so he could maintain his grip on her, while holding his wand at the ready. He pushed off from the tree and trailed after the orb.

He couldn't let it worry him that rather than guiding them out of the Forbidden Forest, the light was leading them further  _in_.


	2. Hidden Hearts

**Chapter Two**

Hidden Hearts

Stone walls and steepled towers rose, so dark he could barely see more than the building's outline as first, against the backdrop of tall, gnarled trees with twisted branches. Harry approached the structure cautiously, swallowing hard as he once more shifted Hermione's unconscious form in his arms. The black, crumbling manor stood in—by Harry's estimation, given how very long he'd walked—what was likely the very heart of the Forbidden Forest.

In fact, the vines and roots erupting from the base of the manor gave him the unsettling impression that the building  _was_  the heart of the Forest. He had the feeling that no one knew this was here; not even Dumbledore, who possessed seemingly infinite knowledge of Hogwart's secrets.

As he watched the ball of light bob ahead of them, so close to the wall that its illumination reflected dully off the pocked stone, he couldn't help but wonder when the last time was that someone had stumbled upon this place. If not for the death or departure of so many of the Forest's denizens, he doubted he—or Draco, assuming he really was here—would have made it far enough in to discover the large, if decrepit, dwelling.

Now that he had a moment to reflect, he considered it a wonder Fenrir managed to find a unicorn to slaughter. Poor creature might've been the last one in the Forbidden Forest, for all anyone knew, though Harry highly doubted that such a thought would've stayed the werewolf's hand.

"I suppose things could always be worse," he muttered to Hermione, comforted by the fact that he could still feel her breathing against him, as he shook his head. "He could've been hiding out in a cave, or something."

The orb appeared to be waiting for him and he forced himself to walk toward it. As he moved, the ball of light drifted around a corner of the structure. He paused, listening for anything which might be lurking, only to once more be unnerved by the endless silence of the dark woods surrounding them.

He kept his wand at the ready, still. His entire arm ached and trembled with the tension, but he held tight; he couldn't drop his guard and couldn't slacken his hold on Hermione.

Grand, cracked stonework steps came into view as he rounded another corner. The orb hovered, again seeming to await him patiently, before it zipped upward. His gaze trailed it to a second story window from which he thought he spied a flickering light . . . probably candles?

But then the orb jetted inside and Harry held his breath, stifling a pained groan as he shifted Hermione's body to point his wand at the window.

There was a quick popping sound—like the filament of a bulb bursting—followed by the candlelight going out. In the sudden darkness, Harry could just make out the point of a wand emerging from the window.

He thought, or perhaps hoped, that he saw a glint of silvery-blonde hair amongst the shadows. Harry decided to take the risk; if he waited any longer his arms would give out and he'd drop Hermione.

" _Lumos_." As he said the word, he kept his gaze trained on the window.

". . . Potter?"

Harry heard his name a moment before Draco Malfoy poked his head out.

Grey eyes darted over them, but Harry couldn't help observing that Draco seemed to give a start when he realized who Harry was carrying. Harry had intentionally covered her face with her hair, hiding the stain of silver on her mouth, but he knew the long, bushy brown locks would be recognizable to anyone who'd ever met the girl.

"Merlin's beard, what happened?"

"Can we discuss that when we're inside? Get down here and help me before my arms give out!"

Though he thought he saw Draco roll his eyes, the other young man disappeared from the window. A moment later, he appeared at the yawning double-doors atop the steps.

He descended slowly, holding his arms out, his expression wary as though he expected she'd awaken any moment and hit him with a curse.

As Draco drew closer, Harry noticed he looked as terrible as they probably did—skin ashen, eyes sunken. He gingerly handed her over, watchfully eyeing Malfoy as he did so.

Harry's arms dropped to his sides and he let out a grunt at the responding pain that shot through his limbs.

"What was that?" Draco asked as he turned and led Harry back up the steps. "How did you find me?"

After a moment of silently trailing through the depressingly broken building, Harry finally muttered, "A trick Dumbledore left us. How'd you find this place? Did you know this was here?"

As he preceded Harry up twisting staircase, Draco shook his head. "No, I . . . I just ran."

"You ran," Harry echoed bitterly. "Of course you did, this is  _you._ "

"No, I mean yes, just . . . not like that. I was  _fighting_ , right beside Longbottom, if you can believe that. But then . . ." he halted at the landing, glancing over his shoulder at Harry. "But then you killed Voldemort and nothing changed. The fighting kept on, and we were losing."

He faced forward, again, the sound of him forcing a gulp down his throat practically bouncing off the walls. "We were losing—everyone was  _dying_ —so I ran. And I didn't stop, not until I found myself here."

The room he led Harry into wasn't anything like what Harry'd been imaging. Everything was clean, shiny and brand-new looking, probably medieval in décor, but shiny and new in appearance nonetheless.

Draco delicately set Hermione on the bed, all but jumping back from her.

" _Nox_ ," Harry whispered, the illumination from his wand no longer necessary as Draco lit candles set into a holder upon a nearby dressing table. "Bloody hell, Malfoy. Had time for spring cleaning, did you?"

Draco furrowed his brow as he glanced around. "Of course not, I used magic. Didn't expect me to stay in such unlivable conditions, did you?"

Now Harry rolled his eyes. "Of course not," he repeated.

"Everyone else _is_  dead, aren't they?"

Harry gave a mirthless laugh as he lowered himself to sit beside Hermione. "Dead, hiding, or following your father."

"My father?"

"Oh, were you not aware that he'd jump at the chance to seize control?"

Draco held up a hand, shaking his head as though he didn't understand. "My father took over?"

"After the dust settled, yes. It was the first thing he did. And after your mother . . . ." Harry paused. He knew that telling Draco what had really happened might, instead, send him running back to his parents, looking to reclaim his position as the revered Malfoy heir, but Harry needed to know, sooner rather than later, if he was going to have to seek aid for Hermione on his own.

"After your mother told him you were dead."

"She said—"

"Yes."

What little color was left in Draco's face drained, but he only nodded. "Why did you come looking for me, then?"

Harry's eyes narrowed as he met Malfoy's gaze. "You're not going back to them?"

"I've learned a few things about myself during all this, Potter. First and foremost," he scowled, looking away, "I'm no killer. I'm hardly a good person, but I don't have it in me to  _kill_ someone. If I go back, that's exactly what they'll make me become."

"That's why I came to find you," Harry mumbled, thoughtfully. "We need your help."

"For what? We've lost already, haven't we?"

Sighing heavily, Harry closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them again and leaning over Hermione to sweep her away from her face. "For this."

Draco cautiously leaned over, his jaw dropping at the sight of silver on her lips. "Is that . . . ?"

"Unicorn blood, yes."

As Harry watched Draco's face, he realized he'd taken exactly the right approach. His observations about the other boy had not been mistaken.

"How did this happen? Granger would  _never_  have—"

"Of course she didn't do this to herself! It was your buddy Greyback; I think he was trying to torture her, or something." Harry frowned darkly, shifting his gaze to look out the window. "Ron and Ginny are gone, and Hermione is cursed to a half-life."

"I'm sorry, you're expecting me to help you do what, exactly?"

Resting his elbows on his knees, Harry clasped his hands in front of him. "We're going to figure out how to break her curse."

"We're . . . oh, you have lost it, haven't you?" Draco paced anxiously as he spoke, "In case you've forgotten, the only cure for her condition is an elixir created by use of the Sorcerer's Stone. A stone which, by the way, _your_  buddy Dumbledore saw destroyed six years ago."

"There's got to be a way, and between you and me, we're going to be able to figure something out, I know we are."

"You realize what you're asking?" Draco sat down heavily on the other side of Hermione, pressing a fist to his mouth for a long moment before saying anything more. " _If_  there is a way, how are we going to find it, hmm? You said it yourself, anyone else you could've turned to is dead or hiding or . . . _lost_. We'd be risking our lives just trying to 'figure something out'. After everything I've done to survive, what makes you think I'm willing to do that?"

Harry glanced pointedly at Hermione's face before returning his attention to Malfoy. "Because you owe us that much. And because you're not as subtle as you think."

Draco's posture stiffened, making the lanky young man appear taller as he stared back at Harry. "I'm not sure I know what you mean, Potter."

Even with all that had happened, with all they'd lost, and all they'd lived through, Harry couldn't help but simply laugh. "She's my best friend, you're one of my worst enemies. You really think  _I_  wouldn't notice how your face changed whenever you looked at her? You act like you hate her, but you couldn't watch Bellatrix torture her. I saw where you were when Ron and I came in to save her. You were in a corner, with your head down. Your mother was comforting you!" Leaning back, Harry covered his mouth with his hand as he rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling—how had he not realized this sooner? The signs were there, but he'd been so distracted troubling himself over the bigger picture that he'd just not noticed. "It shouldn't have bothered you if you loathed her as much as you had everyone believe, or, at least shouldn't have bothered you so much that you  _needed_  comfort."

His gaze darting about, looking everywhere but at Hermione, Harry observed, Draco shrugged. "Maybe I'm just not the sort that can watch something like that."

"Maybe you're right. So I suppose it wouldn't matter to you that as much as she seemed to hate you, she was the one who noticed stress taking a toll on you when you were restoring the vanishing cabinet last year." Harry paused, his expression clouding over as he considered what he was saying, as he considered something he'd never have paid mind to, if not for circumstance forcing him to think on it. "She said you'd looked pale and like you were sick, and I didn't listen. Did you know I was down below when Snape killed Dumbledore? I heard  _everything_."

Draco met Harry's gaze, but remained silent.

"And I told her. Do you know what she asked me? She asked me if I thought you could've done it. If you would have been able to kill Dumbledore if Snape hadn't stepped in." Harry's eyes drifted closed for a brief moment. "Never occurred to me to wonder why she'd even ask that."

"Why are you telling me this, Potter?"

Harry reached over, gently lacing his fingers through Hermione's. "Look, if you won't do it to repay us for saving your life, then maybe, just maybe you'll do it because  _she_  needs this."

Malfoy's shoulders drooped. "Fine, fine. I'll help. But Granger's never to know we had this conversation."

Standing, Harry rolled his head on his aching neck. "Why not? I mean, don't you someday want to find out from  _her_  why she wanted to know if you were capable of taking someone's life?"

Draco didn't respond to that, only watching Harry walk toward the door. "Where are you going?"

"A safe distance from here to see if I can summon my house elf, Kreacher. We might be here a while, we're going to need supplies, and maybe to get messages to anyone who's hiding."

"Right, then you might want to take this," hunching over to reach beneath the bed, Draco extracted a strikingly familiar bundle of fabric.

Eyes wide in a mix of irritation and astonishment, Harry snatched the cloak from his hands. "You stole my invisibility cloak?"

"How else do you think no one saw me as I got away?"

"Unbelievable," Harry muttered unhappily as he put the cloak around his shoulders. "Just take care of her while I'm gone."

For several long, painfully silent and drawn out moments after Potter left, Draco simply watched her. This entire scenario was ridiculous. There was no way to help her. Well, there might be, but he wasn't certain they'd be able to manage.

"You're a mess," he said quietly, sternly avoiding thinking on the tear streaks that cut the dirt smudges on her cheeks.

He flicked his wand at the basin on the bedside table, " _Aguamenti_." Glancing around the room, he spotted a wash cloth and guided it to his hand. "If anyone ever saw this . . ." he grumbled as he dipped the cloth into the water and set to delicately wiping her face clean. He was especially gentle in rubbing the stains of silver from her lips.

"Thank you," her voice was thin, barely audible, but gave him a start nonetheless.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he put the cloth on the table. "You're finally awake. Listen, Granger, you should probably hear this from Potter, but Weasley . . . " he let his voice trail off as she gave a small shake of her head.

"I was too weak to even talk until just now, but I've been awake this entire time."

A dull knot of dread twisted in the pit of Draco's stomach. "So you heard everything?"

Her closed eyelids fluttered, but did not open. "Everything."

"You're awake!" Harry's words cut through the room.

Only as Potter bolted across the room to her bedside did Draco become aware that he'd leaned close to Hermione— _too_  close—and he immediately bolted upright.

"She's _been_  awake," he informed Harry in a low voice.

Harry gave a slow, pained blink of his eyes as he grasped her hand between both of his and pressed the backs of her fingers to his cheek. "Then you heard what I said about Ron?"

She nodded.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione. I couldn't save him. I tried, but I couldn't."

A bitter smile played on her lips. "It's okay, Harry. None of what's happened was your fault."

"It's okay?" Harry sat up straight, looking into her face doubtfully. "Hermione, nothing is okay, you and Ron were—"

"Maybe it's the unicorn blood," Malfoy interrupted, uncertain. "Half-life and all that? We don't really know what that does to someone."

"No," she said quietly. "Well, yes, but . . . that's not what I mean. I understand everything, and it hurts. But the blood tempers it . . . like a kissed wound."

Draco furrowed his brow. "What is she talking about?"

Harry shrugged. "Um . . . ."

Hermione sighed, the tremor in her voice the only sign of her pain. "Muggle convention, but given Harry's upbringing, I'm not surprised he's not familiar enough to explain it. When a child gets injured, a loved one kisses the wound to take the pain away."

"And that works?" Malfoy's words were heavy with disbelief.

"Of course not," she whispered, laughing softly. "But . . . that's not really the point. It soothes the child, makes them feel better even though the pain is still there. That's how I feel right now. It hurts  _so_  much—knowing what happened, knowing I wasn't there to do anything about it—but I think the blood must be cushioning wound."

The boys exchanged another glance, albeit a bewildered one, this time.

"Did Kreacher come?"

Harry cleared his throat, forcing a sniffle as he tightened his grip on her hand. "Yes. He's bringing food and clothes, and then he's going to go to all the Order's safe houses to look for survivors. I think it's best we don't decide anything further until we hear news."

Hermione's other hand was groping along the bed. "That's so strange, I can't feel anything other than you."

Biting his lip, Harry again stroked her fingers against his cheek. "What do you mean?"

"There's a pressure that tells me I'm touching something, yet I don't have the actual sensation of touch, but I can feel your skin on mine."

Her searching hand landed on Malfoy's. The startled look on his face caused Harry to think it a grand feat that the other young man didn't jump away from her.

"Draco," her voice was soft, still, as she said his name, her fingers tugged at his. He made a show of impatiently rolling his eyes as he let her take his hand. "I can feel you, too."

"So," Harry began, his voice low with anger, suddenly wishing he'd done more to Greyback than just feed him unicorn blood. "This part of the half-life, too?"

"I think so," Draco replied, unable to do anything more for a moment than stare at her hand on his.

Nodding stiffly, Harry pressed a kiss to Hermione's forehead. "I'm going to search this place, see if there's anything that might be useful. You rest."

He relinquished her hand and stood. As he reached the door, Draco's voice stopped him, "Potter!" He turned back to see Malfoy leaning over Hermione, his free hand cupping her cheek.

"You're overreacting," she whispered as Harry rushed back to her side. "I'm fine."

"Look at her eyes," Draco murmured, as though she'd not spoken.

Harry's jaw dropped as his gaze met Hermione's. She only offered an exasperated frown as she looked from him, to Malfoy and back again. Hermione's Granger's eyes—the rich, brown eyes of the girl he'd known since his first day at Hogwart's—were silver. The curse had marked her for  _anyone_  to see.


	3. Fortuitous Things

**Chapter Three**

Fortuitous Things

Lucius Malfoy's cold, grey eyes swept over the Great Hall—signs of the battle's destruction largely undone by magic—as he sat in the gilded chair, once occupied by the  _great_ Dumbledore.

Hogwart's  _was_ a grand castle, after all. The grounds held a place in the history of not only Wizarding Britain, but the entire Wizarding World, it was isolated . . . and—most importantly—a spoil of war. The perfect place from which to carry out the much needed changes Lucius saw possible for them, all.

"It has been nearly three days," he said, his muttered words tumbling out, low and even. "Draco's body has yet to be found."

Furrowing her brow, Narcissa wrung her hands. "I don't understand this. Where could he be?"

He heaved an exasperated sigh. "I am beginning to think your eyes deceived you, dear wife."

"No," she whispered, her voice taking on a frantic note. She wanted to believe her son was alive, yet not by her side; but after all this, she felt she simply couldn't. She didn't have it in her to hope, only if that hope would later be dashed. "I won't consider anything else until every nook of this castle has been searched."

Lids fluttering with the restraint it took to keep from rolling his eyes, Lucius said quietly, "Every  _nook_? Do those struck down by the killing curse often wander into secret crevices _after_ the fact?"

Her pale cheeks flamed with embarrassment at his scornful tone, though she understood how ridiculous she sounded.

"You must face reality, Narcissa. Either his body was stolen, or it was never here to start. I had thought you would find the possibility that he is alive somewhere as welcome news."

She shook her head, "I . . . ." Her words trailed off as a commotion outside the Great Hall met her ears.

Goyle, Sr. rushed into the room, approaching the dais. His gaze flicked toward Lucius before he motioned Narcissa close.

A frown gracing her thin lips, she stepped up to him and angled her ear toward his mouth.

Sitting back, Lucius propped his elbow upon the armrest and pillowed his chin against the heel of his palm as he watched his wife's expression. Her lips pulled into a tight line and she shook her head, making him wonder what, exactly, she was being told.

She straightened up, fixing Goyle with a hard stare, one perfect, arched brow inching upward. "Why should that be reason for such—"

"Because there is something  _wrong_ with him," Goyle said, flicking his gaze over his shoulder, back toward the doors.

"What in Merlin's name is going on?" Lucius asked finally, already tired of such cryptic foolishness.

Narcissa pivoted on her heel, meeting her husband's gaze. "Fenrir has returned."

"Returned?" He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Huh. I was not even aware he'd gone."

Goyle cringed as a growling howl rumbled outside.

Understanding rather suddenly how an angry werewolf might pose a concern, Lucius addressed his former confidante directly, "What, exactly, do you mean something is  _wrong_ with him?"

Before Goyle could respond, the doors flew open and Fenrir stepped through. A young, and very confused-looking, wizard followed at his heels.

"What do you mean you don't remember?" The wizard's voice was high and tight as he demanded the information. "And  _what_  is wrong with your eyes?"

Halting mid-stride, Fenrir turned toward the wizard, silencing any further questions by gripping a hand around the young man's throat. Fenrir dragged him closer, breathing the words in his face, "There is nothing wrong with my eyes!"

Shoving away the wizard, Fenrir boomed as he continued up to the dais, "I want to  _rip_  that Potter boy to shreds. Unless you need him for something, I'm hunting him down!"

Lucius hid a chuckle, gaze flicking up toward the ceiling for a moment. "Hunt down the Potter boy? We've  _won_ , why would you bother—" He cut himself off as Fenrir finally drew near enough that Lucius could see the werewolf's eyes.

Unnoticing of the startled look flitting across their new Lord's face, Fenrir thundered on, "That . . . that half-blood whelp attacked me!"

The wizard behind Fenrir —wasn't his name something like Thane, or . . . Thadius? Lucius could never keep track of those deemed inconsequential to him, and there were so many of them. Tha-whatever-his-name-was lifted his brows in surprise, but remained silent.

Seamlessly regaining his composure, Lucius shrugged. Only Narcissa had noticed his slip, anyway, and no one present appeared to know what the beast-man's silver eyes meant, other than that the new, metallic hue carried with it a deep sense of  _wrongness_ that he knew they could feel in the pits of their stomachs, just as he did.

"And that explains why you've been missing for, what, two and a half days?"

Fenrir's rage drained from his expression instantly, replaced by blank gaping. "That's can't be! I woke up in the Forest . . . couldn't have been more than an hour ago."

"Wait, wha' happened to the girl?" Tha . . . something-or-other asked.

Heavy brow furrowing, Fenrir threw up his hands. "What girl?"

Lucius exploded from his seat at the glimpse of silver coating the werewolf's fingers. "Is that unicorn blood?" he demanded as he strode across the dais to stand beside Narcissa; was this fortuitous event meant to come at such a price?

Fenrir looked at his hands, as though seeing them for the first time. "Must be. I don't remember killing the unicorn, but when I woke up, there it was on the ground and I had silver on my hands."

The young wizard's face scrunched in disgust. "Were you dying? You said the Potter boy attacked you."

Lucius allowed a smirk to grace his lips—Potter  _attacking_ the werewolf, and a  _girl_ Fenrir suddenly couldn't remember? Oh, he had a good notion what happened. "Potter may have ended the Dark Lord, but the boy is no killer."

Grey eyes settled on the young man, who gave a start when he realized himself the center of Lord Malfoy's attention. "So . . . Thadius?"

"Thayer, my lord," the wizard said, averting his gaze.

So respectful and easily cowed . . . . Yes, Lucius was going to keep this one close—this Thayer showed the makings of a perfect underling. "My mistake, Thayer. Tell me of this girl you mentioned."

"W—well, I saw Fenrir before he vanished, my lord. He had that pretty little mudblood girl with him."

Thayer's words confirmed Lucius' suspicions. As far as he was aware, there was only one girl over whom The Boy Who Lived would  _attack_ someone. Well, there  _had_ been two, but he'd tripped over the Weasley girl's body, himself, so she hardly counted, anymore.

"What would I want with a mudblood?" Fenrir spat the words, unnoticing of the Malfoys' brief looks of amusement. That a werewolf would show disgust over something his affliction made him no better than was quite humorous to the purebloods, indeed.

Thayer's wide, dark eyes rolled upward as he offered a shrug. "Well, she was  _very_ pretty. And innocent-looking."

"Innocent-looking, hey?" Fenrir uttered a chuckle. "That explains it."

Narcissa glanced away, setting her jaw. The twisted creature's laughter made her stomach turn; she thought if she allowed herself more compassion, she might be glad the girl managed to get away.

"Big brown hair," Thayer went on, "brown eyes. Looked like she'd put up a pretty good fight before he got his hands on her. Said he was going to break her and then bite her, maybe."

Lucius' gaze darted to his wife, but a moment too late to catch the distaste in her expression. Not that it would have mattered; he needed to focus on the werewolf, on keeping the beast neatly under his thumb, for the time being. "I do believe they're describing Miss Granger."

Fenrir showed no sign that he recognized the description, or the name.

"So a  _boy_ attacked you, causing you to lose the girl you were going to make into one of your kind, and left you  _so_ gravely injured you had to drink unicorn blood to survive the encounter?" The corner of Lucius' mouth curled, smirk widening so that his cheek dimpled. "And in the midst of all that, the mudblood managed to cast a memory charm on you?"

Fenrir blanched, realizing how  _weak_ that chain of events made him sound, however . . . it was all that made logical sense. He couldn't recall the last time he'd cared for logic, but then, he also couldn't recall the moment Thayer stepped up beside him and clapped a hand around his leather-sleeved elbow—couldn't recall it because he hadn't  _felt_  his touch.

The dim notion occurred to him that there was something wrong,  _very_ wrong, with him, yet he couldn't bring himself to care. He only wanted to feel anger again, to work himself up into a froth and be loosed in the Forbidden Forest to find that boy and rend his flesh.

Yet, now that he'd relinquished the grip on his wrath, he couldn't seem to reclaim that precious, familiar rage. That should upset him, he realized—anger warmed his heart the way he often heard love warmed others—but that, as well, was something about which he seemed simply unable to care.

"I think maybe you need to eat something," Thayer said as he tried to pull his comrade away from Lord Malfoy.

When once the easily-riled creature would have snapped at such a condescending gesture, Fenrir merely nodded and allowed the young wizard to lead him away by the arm.

Lucius narrowed his eyes as he watched the pair take their leave. He did not like this turn of events; not in the slightest.

The mudblood could not have been the one to cast the memory charm. No, if the Granger girl had a wand, Fenrir would never have stood a chance. And, while he believed Potter had, in fact, attacked the beast-man, the boy probably hadn't the presence of mind in the moment to cast something so tame.

He squared his jaw, gaze settling on the Hall's wide doubledoors. As he considered what might have happened, he came to like the theory unfolding in his mind even less than he had a moment ago.

Though a memory charm did give him an idea.

"I see the wheels turning, husband," Narcissa said in a whisper.

He turned his head to find she'd drawn up close beside him. Yes, with her he would share his thoughts, but  _only_  her. His attention shot to Goyle, who'd stood by, silent and immobile during Fenrir's entire episode.

How had he never before noticed what a cowardly individual his old  _friend_  was?

"Goyle," Lucius said gently, forcing a smile as he crooked a finger, beckoning the other man closer.

Goyle frowned as he rolled his shoulders to stand perfectly straight. A flicker in Goyle's expression brought Lucius to believe the other wizard only now realized the spineless behavior he'd just exhibited.

"Yes, my lord," he said, his voice gruffer than usual as he stepped nearer.

"Go find this fallen unicorn. Take full note of the scene, I want even the tiniest detail."

"Yes, my lord," he repeated before turning on a heel and hurrying out of the hall.

"This is a fortunate day, Narcissa," he began once they were alone. "I have often thought it an injustice that the brightest witch of this new age is a mudblood. But if she could be made to believe she is one of us . . . ."

Narcissa's eyebrows inched upward. "You can't be serious!"

He shrugged. "I'm not suggesting we adopt her. I'm suggesting that with the correct discipline applied, that girl could be a useful weapon to us. She could even be made to accept her station; she would only need to forget everything else, first."

"Even were that the case, Potter is with her, he'd die before letting anyone close to that girl."

"Not just Potter, I fear."

Something in his tone made her swallow a gasp, though she didn't want to admit she understood his implication. "I'm not certain I know what you mean."

"Yes, you do. Draco isn't here. I saw him fighting against the Death Eaters—so did you. When we had Potter at our mercy, he refused to identify him. Potter rescued the mudblood girl in the woods . . . perhaps Draco was the one who cast the charm on Fenrir and then—"

"And then what? He left with them, bossum companions?"

Once more he offered her a shrug, his expression drifting back to his customary cold and unconcerned manner. "Why not? War makes for strange alliances."

"There's something more, isn't there?" She met his gaze, her eyes narrowing sharply. "Something you're not telling me."

His face scrunched unpleasantly as he debated whether to indulge his wife's curiosity—after all, was he wrong, such would prove dreadfully embarrassing. "When I was a boy," he said quietly, leaning close so that he could drop his voice further, still, "I happened across a tale. A prophecy, from a time before they were recorded in orbs."

"This prophecy comes to mind now because . . . ?"

"Because it tells of a time when those of the  _silver_  eyes will again walk amongst us."

"Again?" Narcissa's heart thumped wildly in her chest, though she wasn't entirely certain why. She could not recall any text, or history lesson—nor even a fable, for Merlin's sake—which spoke of silver-eyed beings. "What do you mean, _again_?

"Exactly. Whatever became of them was so long ago, it's been forgotten. I believe I may be the only living soul to have laid eyes upon the tale." His words became rushed and breathless, a nearly child-like wonder lighting his eyes. "The prophecy stated that those with the silver eyes would hold the key to a great secret."

"So that is why you subdued Fenrir? You mean to use him to unlock this  _great_  secret?"

Lucius frowned, the bridge of his nose crinkling in distaste. "What other purpose would there be to keeping such a creature alive? Though, truthfully, I am not fond of anything so auspicious hinging on a beast like him." As though suddenly remembering something, his features smoothed as he continued, "Oh, but he is not subdued. Controlled, I believe, yet not subdued."

"I'm afraid I don't follow," she said as she furrowed her brow.

He smiled, withdrawing his wand to touch the tip to his throat. "Greyback, come here," his voice boomed, echoing through the Great Hall.

Narcissa recoiled inwardly at the idea of that beast being near her once more. She stepped lightly around her husband, placing him between herself and the entrance.

The doors eased open, Thayer in the lead as he coaxed Fenrir to follow him. "I'm sorry, my lord," he called across the Hall, "he seems . . . distracted."

Lucius only shook his head dismissively at the young man as he waited for the werewolf to approach the dias.

The beast was still chewing something, gravy dribbling down his chin as he closed the distance.

"Merlin's beard, man, wipe your face," Thayer pleaded in a loud whisper.

With an exhausted roll of his those alarming metallic eyes, Fenrir drew his sleeved arm across his chin. He couldn't care less for his appearance, he simply hoped the act would get Thayer to shut up.

"I have decided," Lucius said, keeping his wand at the ready, in case this backfired, "I will allow you to hunt down  _Potter._ "

An enraged growl exploded out of Fenrir at the mere mention. The creature's entire demeanor changed, shoulders hunching, fingers curving as he bent low to the ground, as though he would leap upon any one of them at the slightest provocation.

Lucuis flicked his gaze over his shoulder, toward Narcissa. "You see? There is no was to truly subdue him, only to remove him from that which ignites his fury for a time."

Narcissa drew her wand, as well, but shrank further behind him. "How did you know?"

"I actually didn't. I was . . . how does the term go? Following a hunch."

She pursed her lips, eyes rolling. "Of course."

Lucius opened his mouth, but the doors opening once more silenced anything he might have said.

Fenrir started, snarling and bracing for an attack as he spun toward the sound.

Lord Malfoy looked to the back of the Hall, his instant aggravation turning to mild confusion.

Goyle dragged along behind him a half-conscious house elf. The wrinkled, gnarled creature looked like it had been beaten within an inch of its life.

"Found him by the unicorn," Goyle said in explanation as he slid the thing toward the dais and let its arms fall to the floor. "Pretty sure the centaurs got to him, first, must've thought he was responsible for killing the beast."

Once more, Lucius let his disgust be visible in his expression. "Why bring it here instead of letting it die in the Forest?"

"Because of what he told me. Go on," Goyle prodded the elf, "tell our Lord what you told me."

"Kreacher . . . rejoices to see the purebloods in charge," the elf's gravely voice spilled out, barely audible, as his gaze flicked—sightless, it seemed—about the Hall. "But Kreacher cannot betray his master."

Lucius gave a short chuckle, pointing his wand at Kreacher. "Oh, I think I can loosen your resolve.  _Crucio_."

Narcissa cringed, biting her lip at the guttural screams tearing from the elf's throat. The pitiful shrieks seemed to last forever, causing her to finally give in and clap her hands over her ears.

Truly, winning this war had awakened terrible things in them. She couldn't recall caring for the pain of the servants, before.

"Kreacher was deep in the Forbidden Forest," the elf rasped, finally. "Master is there, in a house!"

Goyle grinned in triumph before giving the creature a hard kick in the stomach. "Go on!"

"The Malfoy heir is with him . . . and the mudblood girl. But she's not mudblood no more!"

Narcissa's hands slipped from her ears, her body sagging in relief and she let her weight fall against Lucius' back as she silently thanked whatever was responsible. At that contact, she noticed his posture had changed, as well. The confirmation of Draco's survival strengthened something in Lucius, causing him to stand straighter; to naturally become a sturdier support for her.

"A house in the Forest, a mudblood no more? What sort of nonsense is that?"

Kreacher tried, again, to look around, to focus on the faces gathered around him. "Kreacher speaks the truth. She's something, now," he muttered, his voice getting lower, more difficult to understand with each word that passed his lips. "She's got eyes like-like . . . him."

The elf's eyes rested upon Fenrir. Lucius looked from Kreacher to the werewolf, stepping over the elf, even as its enormous eyes slid closed and its breathing stilled.

"Fenrir," he murmured, catching Greyback's gaze with his own. "Go now, track  _Potter_ , he has your prize!"

Fenrir nodded, letting loose an elated growl as he launched himself toward the doors.

"You two, follow him," Lucius said in a venomous whisper, conveying his seriousness to them. "I don't care if he kills Potter, but you bring my son and the girl here to me."

Both wizards nodded before turning to take off after Fenrir.

When the Great Hall was again silent, Lucius pivoted on his heel, catching Narcissa by the elbows as the sudden move set her off balance. She tried not to look at the lifeless house elf.

"A fortunate day this is turning out to be, indeed," he said, unable to help the smile curving his lips. "To think, we were  _just_  discussing turning that girl into something useful to us, and now . . . ." He chuckled, " _Now_  she bears the silver eyes!"

"How did she get them?" Narcissa couldn't disguise the revulsion in her voice this time. "Greyback I can understand drinking from a unicorn, but her?"

Lucius gave a careless shrug as he released her and returned to the gilded chair. "I'd wager that was Fenrir's doing, for . . . some reason or other. That doesn't matter." He sat and once more dropped his chin against his palm as he met her gaze. "What matters is that once we have the girl, we will no longer have  _need_  of Fenrir Greyback."


	4. Strange Senses

**Chapter Four**

Strange Senses

_Seventy-two hours earlier . . . ._

Harry frowned, ducking another trailing cobweb as he walked through the decrepit manor's kitchen. The rooms on the upper floor had proved mostly useless—at least to him—but he did have the hope Hermione would be strong enough to explore soon, herself. The books lining the library shelves were in surprisingly good condition, but a few of the ones he'd checked were in a language he didn't recognize. Perhaps she could decipher their pages.

He waved his wand, the illumination casting ghastly, angular shapes against the darkened walls from countertops, table ledges, and cabinet doors hanging off their hinges. With any luck, they could do a little magical tidying, as Draco had done with the room upstairs, so they might at least have a few more basic comforts for however many days they might be stuck here.

As he turned to take in the room, he spied a door, tucked away beside a wide, shelved nook he guessed was the pantry.

He reached for the knob, turning gently, but it would not move. "You're either locked, or stuck," he murmured, hoping for the latter. Mysteriously locked doors had a habit of proving ominous.

Harry gave a sharp twist to figure out which, accidentally snapping off the knob in his hand. As he was about to let out a soft curse—so much for being able to tell if it was locked or stuck—the door eased open a jar, creaking on its hinges as a musty breeze tickled past his nose.

Easing the door open, he grimaced as the hinges gave another loud, elongated creak. For a strained moment after the unnerving sound—made only more disquieting for the stillness surrounding him, he suspected—he simply stood at the yawning entrance and listened. He wasn't certain if he was hoping to hear something, or nothing at all. The silence that met his ears was what he should have expected, yet it still jangled his nerves; like the unnatural dearth of noise in the Forbidden Forest since the battle ended.

He'd been through so much and faced so many terrors, Harry'd have thought he had lost the ability to fear things; yet as he held out the tip of his lit wand to gaze down the winding stone staircase, he felt a trickle of ice wind through him, sharp and thudding. He only hoped this meant he still had an iota of common sense left.

* * *

Hermione was jarred by a sudden loss of sensation, leaving her to drift in a numb, colorless limbo. Forcing her eyes open, her gaze immediately locked on Draco's fingers slipping from her hand.

"Draco?"

Her voice, weak and light as it wound through the room, jolted him. She hadn't surprised him, not really, but he wasn't certain he'd ever heard Insufferable-Know-It-All, Hermione Granger sound so very fragile. And, though that made it twice, now, he was still unaccustomed to hearing her call him Draco to his face.

He turned his head, but couldn't bring himself to look at her—not if she was going to stare at him with those eyes. Those eyes hurt in a strange way; he blamed himself for what was happening to her. Perhaps if he'd not run, he'd have seen Fenrir drag her away.

But who was he kidding? Even had he seen, he wasn't sure he'd have done anything, what with his long and storied history of cowardice. Then again, maybe he felt responsible for the simple fact of having been on the same side as a detestable creature like Fenrir—for being allied, however loosely, or indirectly, with a being who could do what Fenrir had done.

Draco was self-aware enough to grasp that he was  _not_  weak, physically or magically, nor was he lacking for intelligence. Honestly, why  _was_  he such a coward?

"I'm sorry," he said softly, instead locking his eyes on her fingers; they grasped at the blanket beneath her as she reached toward him. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't sleeping," she said with a confused pout.

Draco couldn't help a smirk. "Tell that to your snoring."

"Draco Malfoy, I'll have you know I do _not_ snore."

Her voice was still low, but her tone was fiery, and that familiar uppity spark put him at ease, if only a little.

He shrugged, pivoting on a heel to face her, yet still couldn't lift his gaze to hers. "You got me there, but you  _did_ fall asleep." After Potter had stepped from the room, she'd dozed right off—while Draco cupped her cheek with one hand, and her chilled fingers grasped his other, no less. He was afraid to move at first, only slipping his hand from her face to turn and sit beside her, allowing her to continue holding onto him. But Potter had been gone a while, and Draco was sure he'd just heard a dull, metal wrenching sound from somewhere below.

Then her head fell onto his shoulder. He turned to look at her slowly, as one might when expecting to see a dragon stalking them. For a few silent moments, punctuated only by the delicate sound of her inhaling and exhaling, he simply watched her sleeping face. And suddenly he couldn't seem to breathe. He'd successfully eased his shoulder out from beneath her cheek and settled her head on one of the pillows.

But the way her fingers had twitched when he finally worked his hand free of hers should have alerted him to her waking up.

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head as she pushed herself up to sit back against the pillows. "I didn't realize."

His eyebrows drew together as he risked sitting down close to her again. "You're apologizing for falling asleep after fighting through the grand finale of the Second Wizarding War, getting roughed up by the fiercest werewolf our world has ever seen,  _and_  being fed unicorn blood?"

When she didn't reply, he finally forced his eyes to meet hers. He thought if he stared close enough, he'd see himself reflected in her silver irises. The thought made him wonder briefly if that was why he feared looking at her.

"If you don't have the right to nap, who does?"

She smiled wanly at him, laughing half-heartedly, but as quickly as she smiled, the expression faded. The sensation of nothingness, of dull, numb emptiness pressing on her was maddening, and she inched her fingers toward him. "Can . . . Can I hold your hand again?"

Draco looked almost frightened, forcing a gulp down his throat as he held her gaze. "Why?"

Hermione bit her lip. "It's all I can feel; you have no idea what it's like. I've only been this way for such a short time, and already I feel like I'm slipping away. When I touched you and Harry, I didn't feel that way.  _Please_ ," she finished in a whisper.

The distant fear in her voice and the lost look in her metallic eyes were so strangely innocent that it bothered him. "All right," he said after a moment, reaching out to interlace his fingers with hers.

Anchored to reality instantly, the warmth of his skin flooded through her, cushioning the jarred feeling of being so suddenly tethered. That a touch on her hand could be so potent stole her breath for a moment and her eyelids fluttered closed.

Her reaction startled him—she was either in pain or . . . . Oh, no, it couldn't possibly be the other type of physical response it sounded like.

Unable to stop himself, he shifted closer to her, still, watching her expression carefully as he asked, "Are you all right?"

Lids drifting upward, she met his gaze, catching her breath. "Yes, I'm . . . ." She forced another breath. "The contrast between feeling something and nothing at all was just . . . a bit stark, is all."

Against his better judgment, he once more cupped her cheek with his free hand, titling her head to observe the way the flickering candlelight reflected against her silver irises. "I'm—" Draco swallowed hard and tried again. "I'm sorry this happened to you, Granger. I wish I knew how to fix this."

"Why Draco Malfoy," Hermione couldn't help the small smile that curved her lips as she laughed, "if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were worried about me."

"I'm only mildly concerned. Wouldn't want to muck up the whole mutual loathing thing we have going."

Her smile faded as she lifted a hand to rest her fingers over his. "Liar, I heard you and Harry talking, remember?"

Draco scowled. "You could at least spare us both some dignity by pretending you didn't, you know."

There were more important things to worry about, she knew there were, but somehow she couldn't seem to think beyond the current moment. "When did you realize you don't actually hate me?"

"I . . . don't think I did realize, not until Potter put it all out there." Grey eyes squeezed shut. "Not until he pointed out that it seems like you don't actually hate me, either."

He shifted to pull his hand from her cheek, but she clung to his fingers, holding them against her skin. "Please don't," she whispered, her voice trembling, "it's the only thing keeping me anchored."

Wincing, he shook his head, but did as she asked.

"You could have been a little less vile to me, all these years."

"And you to me," he pointed out.

"Touche."

He smirked, once more shaking his head. "Would it have mattered?"

"Probably not." Hermione arched a brow. "What with my mudblood status and all."

Shoulders drooping, Draco rolled his eyes. "Granger, when is the last time I even—"

"What the bloody hell is this?" Harry's voice sliced through the room, causing them both to turn and look at him.

Hermione seemed completely unfazed, Harry noticed—probably that stupid unicorn blood at work—but Malfoy looked like he was ready to jump out of his skin. Likely he hadn't wanted to be seen in any sort of vulnerable light after everything. Despite working out the scene relatively quickly and painlessly, Harry couldn't stop his gaze from tracing her hand over Draco's as he cupped her cheek, or from noticing in his periphery the way she clutched his other hand in hers.

"Something's wrong," she murmured, her brow furrowing as she finally allowed Draco's fingers to slip from her cheek. "What is it, Harry?"

"I, uh . . ." Harry shook his head and cleared his throat. "Well, I found something in the basement that, well, you're just going to have to come see for yourself" He smiled, forgetting any awkwardness for a moment. "Hermione, I think you're going to love it!"

Reflecting his brightened expression, she turned on the bed to set her feet on the floor, though she didn't relinquish her grip on Draco's hand. She pushed up to stand, but wobbled, immediately falling back into a sitting position.

Shaking her head, she held up her free hand as both young men gave a start. "I'm okay, I just . . . I'm still a bit weak, I guess."

Sighing, Draco stood, using his hand on hers to pull her arm around his neck. "C'mon, then." The sooner they could get out of a candlelit bedroom, the more comfortable he'd be.

"Oh, th—thank you," she said, the mumbled words colored by surprise.

Draco only nodded, his expression tight as he started walking her to the door. Potter's watchful gaze hadn't gone unnoticed, however, he could feel the weight of the other boy's stare on his hand as it rested over Granger's. "This is her doing," he explained as he held back for Harry to lead the way. "She's going a little mad from losing the sense of touch."

" _She_  is capable of speaking for herself, thanks very much," Hermione said, irritated, as Draco pulled her to trudge through the house after Harry. She wondered—as they stumbled, as a unit, over a fallen railing post—if it wouldn't be easier for him to simply carry her. But then, she wasn't naive, though everyone always seemed to want to paint her with  _that_  particular brush. Hermione understood that Draco probably didn't want anymore physical contact than was necessary, given what his earlier conversation with Harry had revealed about his _. . ._ _non-hatred_  of her.

Harry looked at her over his shoulder as he led them down the first flight of steps to the main floor.

"He's right, though," she said, knowing Harry was expecting her to elaborate on, or deny, Malfoy's statement. "I think I can only feel other living things, maybe. But without that sensation, I'm just . . . numb."

Frowning, Harry nodded and faced forward again, holding out his wand to keep their path illuminated while they made their way to the kitchen. "Does it . . ." He caught himself; he'd been about to ask if it hurt, but she'd just said she was numb, a person couldn't be both, could they? "Are you frightened?"

"No," she whispered, an air of confusion in that one, small word. "I know I should be, but I just am not. I wonder if I can't feel that anymore."

Once more Harry glanced back, but this time he met Draco's gaze. The pale-haired young man was brandishing an odd sort-of-scowl that Harry actually wanted to believe was a look of concern.

"This way," he said, shaking off the oppressive feeling of fear on her behalf—he needed to focus and worrying about something they were currently powerless to change was a waste of time and energy.

Pushing the door open with his shoulder, he nodded for Draco to take her through. Halting for a moment, Draco slipped away the hand that kept Hermione's arm securely around his neck and withdrew his wand. He reached across, pressing it into the fingers of her free hand.

Only when he held her firmly, once more, did she lift her arm, tiring, though it was. " _Lumos_."

"Why do I have a terrible feeling about this?" Draco muttered as he carefully guided her down the steps.

"Because you're a pessimist," she said quietly, craning her neck to try to catch more of the room below as it was revealed.

When they reached the blank, grey stone floor, Harry trotted down the stairs and stepped around them. He slowly circled the area, revealing shelves, several mortar and pestle sets, scores of ceramic jars, tattered books, and, in the center, a long stone table with what looked like a large bowl molded into one end. Chalkboard-like slabs were propped up against the nearest wall, showing formulas that looked strikingly familiar, though she didn't recognize them.

"Is this what I think it is?"

Harry nodded, biting his lip as he grinned. "Yes."

"All looks like a room full of broken-down rubbish to me," Draco said in a miserable whisper.

"Stop it," Hermione said, though her voice lacked the snapping tone which had once been natural when speaking to him. "It's perfect."

"Then you know what I thought once I found it, right?"

She managed a grin, small, but genuine. "Of course, Harry. I actually knew what the solution was as soon as this happened to me, I just had no idea how to do it."

Grey eyes rolling, Draco clenched his teeth, bristling at the way they talked like they were the only ones in the room. How had Weasle-bee ever tolerated it? "Would someone like to share whatever it is you two are nattering on about?"

Hermione turned her head, capturing his gaze. "Well, we only know of one cure for this curse, and that's the sorcerer's stone. But, of course, it was destroyed, so the obvious answer is to create another. All we were lacking was an alchemy lab to do the work."

Staring back at her, and obviously not joining them in their enthusiasm, Draco nodded to indicate the room. "Fine, we have an alchemy lab. But unless you've got the recipe for  _creating_ a sorcerer's stone in your back pocket, I still don't see what good this does us."

"There's a library up on the second floor, and plenty of books down here," Harry pointed out, interrupting the thoughtful pout Hermione attempted to give. "One of them might have something."

"And if they don't?"

"Then we think of something else," Harry said from behind clenched teeth. Malfoy was just determined to make this seem fruitless before they'd even started. Hermione was right—he was a pessimist. "And trying is better than doing nothing."

"Fine." Pulling Hermione over to the table, Draco turned her around, placed his hands on her hips and lifted her to sit on the stone surface. He picked up the nearest book, blew the dust from the cover and set it in her lap. "But I'd like to go on record," he said as he selected another falling-apart tome and eased it open, "that I think this is a huge waste of time."

Shaking his head, Harry joined them at the table, picking up a book. "Noted."

* * *

After nearly two days of reading, sleeping, and managing to squeak by on water summoned through their wands, Kreacher had finally returned with food and fresh clothes. Harry asked him—almost politely, since Hermione was watching with a raised eyebrow—to fix the kitchen. He was a little put off that the elf, normally so hostile toward Hermione because she was muggleborn, merely bowed his head, refusing to look directly at her whenever she spoke.

But only after he'd seen her eyes.

Harry demanded to know why, but Kreacher claimed not to truly understand his own reaction. "Kreacher only knows she is  _more,"_  he said, leaving them with just that cryptic statement as he turned and hobbled off to the kitchen.

The third morning, Draco tossed the final book in the library across the room. Hermione looked up from where she sat in Harry's lap, like some startled doll. Potter had drifted off to sleep and Draco had deposited her there to keep her in physical contact with someone while he poured over the last of the books.

Now he ignored that he was irked by her hands on Potter's, and his head fallen forward against her shoulder as he dozed.

"That's it, then. That was the last book."

She frowned, forcing a shrug. Granger was trying  _so_  hard to act like there was nothing wrong, but the forced nature of her motions, the way her eyes looked dull and lifeless when she wasn't in contact with one of them, made her facade painfully obvious. "Well, we can . . . . Oh, I've got an idea."

Nudging her shoulder beneath Harry's cheek, she whispered his name.

"Hmm?" He raised his head, blinking sleep-bleary eyes and was immediately surprised to realize he'd been so deeply in slumber he'd not even noticed a girl in his lap. "Oh," he chuckled, "good morning."

"Good morning," she said, smiling back. Though the expression fell a bit flat, he'd give her credit for trying. "We're out of books here, and nothing. But do you remember what we read on Nicholas Flammel in first year?"

"Which part?" He turned his head to yawn, the last thing he wanted was to unleash morning breath directly into Hermione's face. She'd seen many aspects of him over the years, but he didn't wish  _that_  included.

"About being Dumbledore's partner. Maybe there's something in Hogwarts—in the restricted section of the library, or in Dumbledore's office."

"If the Death Eaters haven't destroyed everything," Draco said, bewildered by how easily the most obvious points always seemed to escape their notice.

"No, she's right." Harry said, chewing his bottom lip as he thought. "There are a lot of secret nooks and things in Dumbledore's office. After everything we know, I think we can be confident that Snape didn't disturb anything Dumbledore left behind. And if your father's in charge, I have the odd feeling they'd protect the ancient knowledge of the Wizarding World, especially considering those books were probably written by purebloods."

"Well, when you put it that way," Draco nodded, his eyebrows disappearing beneath his pale, mussed bangs. "But again, Death Eaters. Like, everywhere."

"I have my cloak, and no one knows Hogwarts better than me." Harry frowned, "But, God, what I wouldn't give for my Marauder's Map, right now."

Draco furrowed his brow.

"Never mind."

"Wait, Harry, couldn't you have Kreacher go, instead? House elf magic is probably powerful enough for him to slip in and out without notice."

Frowning, Harry eased her out of his lap and climbed to his feet. "No, I already sent him off. He's got to check the safehouses, still. And besides, he wouldn't know where to look."

She pulled herself up to stand, meeting his gaze. "All right, but just know that I don't like this."

His eyebrows drew together. "Hermione, this was your idea."

She shrugged. "Still."

"I'll slip in, poke around, and come right back, whether or not I find anything."

"But—"

He pressed a finger to her lips, ignoring the way it caused her to shudder. She couldn't help her reaction, she seemed to do that every time one of them touched her after any lack of skin-to-skin contact. "I promise, I'll be careful." He snapped his gaze from hers to look at Draco. "And  _you_  watch over her 'til I get back."

Draco scowled, but stepped forward, taking her hand as Potter's finger slipped from her lips. He didn't want to witness that reaction again, and touching her while she was still touching Harry was the only way to prevent it. "What'd you think I'm going to do? Stick her in a box and wander away?"

Harry gave a lopsided frown. "Yeah, because sneaking away is _so_  unlike you."

"Fair enough. You have my  _word_  I'll watch over her until you're back. Happy."

"Not really, but it'll have to do."

* * *

Hermione had found several books worth rereading to pass the time as she waited for Harry to return, though she honestly wasn't sure how she understood them. She wasn't even certain what language they were written in, only that she could read their words as easily as if they were English.

Piling books into Draco's free arm, she'd then tugged him back to the bedroom and perched by the window, so she'd see Harry as soon as he rounded to the manor's front door.

She found it amusing, though she couldn't work up a true laugh, that Draco kept attempting to pace, only to find himself restricted by the length of her arm's reach and give up.

At least it was better than awkward chit-chat, even if she was acutely aware that he was deliberately avoiding getting into any more discussions with her.

Fear thudded through her suddenly. So sharp it edged on painful as she fell from her perch, the book spilling out of her lap. She hit the floor on her knees, forcing him to tumble down beside her.

"Granger!" He shook her hand from his and grasped her shoulders. She trembled so violently he needed to slip his arms around her and pull her against him to stop her tremors. "What in Merlin's name—"

"Fenrir," she whispered, her voice thick with tears as she choked out that single word in explanation. She could smell him, could feel that terrible revulsion that had made her skin crawl when he'd touched her. The pain in her breast from where his teeth had bruised her ached anew. Everything,  _everything_ , sharper, more exquisitely profound than any other sensation she'd felt in days.

Draco was rocked by the terror in those watering silver eyes as she looked up at him. "What?"

"He's . . . I don't know how I know, but he's coming!"

"Shit!" Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to keep calm, but knowing that blood thirsty beast was out there, drawing near, and likely wouldn't hesitate to rip him limb from limb to get to Granger, made calm a far-off dream, at best.

"Are you strong enough to apparate?"

"I don't know," she muttered, breathing so fast she was surprised she hadn't started hyperventilating.

"Well, we're going to have to try." Draco frowned as he reinforced his hold on her, knowing her weakened state meant they couldn't go far, and pulled her with him to another section of the Forest.

* * *

Thayer exchanged a concerned glance with Goyle as Fenrir tore into the manor. "I didn't really want to believe it."

Goyle didn't respond, only following Fenrir inside, though he shared the younger wizard's sense of ill-ease.

"They were here!" Fenrir bellowed, sniffing at the air like some great, starved beast.

" _Were_?" Goyle echoed as Thayer stepped into the crumbling foyer. "Where'd they go?"

"I don't know," Fenrir said, his words more the growl of an animal, than the voice of a man as he granted them a ferocious grin. "But I'll find them."

* * *

They appeared in the mouth of a cave he'd stumbled over after running away from Potter during that awful detention in first year. It was the only place he could think of that wasn't far, but also wasn't known to the Death Eaters, or a centaur haven.

As soon as they had their feet firmly beneath them, Hermione swayed.

"Dammit, Granger," he whispered in a hiss as he caught her. He found it no use, she'd fainted from the exertion, but then he didn't see that they'd had a choice.

Sighing heavily, Draco shook his head and scooped her up. He ventured a few meters inside, listening closely every step to assure himself there was nothing else in here. He set her carefully on the cave floor and hunkered down beside her, withdrawing his wand and holding it at the ready.

Draco pulled in a deep breath, letting it out slowly from between pursed lips as he tried, again, to tell himself to stay calm. Granger would probably wake up soon and have a brilliant idea about where they might be safe. And then they'd apparate, and she'd faint on him again . . . . He dreaded the vicious cycle of it, already.

But for now, he only had to worry about thinking of a way to let Potter know where they'd disappeared to before Fenrir Greyback managed to find them. "How did I get myself into this mess?" He shook his head, grey eyes trained in the direction of the cave's entrance.


	5. Practical Thinking

**Chapter Five**

Practical Thinking

Harry frowned as he neared the edge of the Forest. The edifice appeared as he last remembered it . . . before the battle had torn out whole sections of wall and gutted the landscape with craters, of course. But that somehow only made the memories of what had transpired—and the pain that accompanied them—sharper. Shaking his head, he forced a sniffle and pulled the cloak tight around him.

He crept out of hiding, eyeing the wizards and witches traipsing about outside the main gate. The sight of such dark-hearted beings acting like carefree children disturbed him, twisting his stomach in knots as he inched forward.

Harry kept his wand at the ready beneath the folds of the cloak, just in case. He didn't trust that a stray wind wouldn't lift a corner of the fabric at the wrong moment and show disembodied legs wandering toward the castle.

Pausing, he forced a gulp, his eyes drifting closed. He'd faced Voldemort and he hadn't been as nerve-wracked as he was in this moment. He reminded himself, however, that defeating the Dark Lord had been a matter of both destiny and necessity.

And everything he'd fought for was lost, now.

_Almost everything_ , he reminded himself. He still had Hermione, and she still needed a cure. And she was the only thing the war hadn't torn away from him.

He nodded to himself and opened his eyes;  _that_  was the source of his fear. If he failed Hermione, none of them knew what would become of her.

"C'mon, Harry, you can do this," he whispered under his breath as he neared the entrance.

He took pains to soften his footfalls as he passed reveling Death Eaters—a single misplaced sound during a random patch of quiet might be enough to get him caught. Squaring his shoulders, he steeled his resolve as he reminded himself that all he needed was the get past the entrance of the Great Hall, and he could bolt for the library, and from there, the headmaster's office.

His heart hammered against his ribs, and every noise he made echoed harshly in his ears beneath the sounds and chatter of the dark wizards around him. He kept his gaze trained ahead of him, warily monitoring his periphery so he didn't stumble, or collide with anyone.

As he eased into the castle's massive foyer, he stopped short of breathing a sigh of relief. He couldn't allow himself lulled into a false sense of security.

Tightening his grip on his wand—so much that his knuckles turned white—Harry held his breath and crossed the open threshold of the Great Hall.

Yet his curiosity got the better of him. He couldn't help turning his head to peer into the spacious chamber. The sight that greeted him made him stop in his tracks.

Lucius Malfoy sat, looking disturbingly regal—as though his fall from grace had never happened—in  _Dumbledore's_  chair.

Harry's jaw clenched, green eyes narrowing. A searing anger twisted though his gut, and it took everything in him not to stalk into the Great Hall and curse the man.

For a few, agonizing heartbeats, Harry stood, his feet glued to the floor as he glared, unblinking. By snatching the leadership left unclaimed in the wake of Voldemort's death, Lucius Malfoy became the embodiment of everything and everyone he'd lost.

And yet . . . .

The very thing that filled him with such blinding rage his limbs trembled, was also exactly what reminded him  _why_  he was here. If he didn't move _, now_ , he might be discovered and then he risked losing the only thing he had left.

As he tore his gaze from Lucius—in some hushed conversation with Narcissa—his attention skirted the floor before the dais. Harry's heart fell into his stomach and his spine stiffened as he realized what that mass of battered flesh and tattered, bloodied cloth was.

"Kreacher," he mouthed the name, a bit of hope leeching from him. "I'm  _so_  sorry."

Without the house elf's aid, they were cut off from any allies who might be in hiding. They were truly on their own, now.

Sealing himself against the doorframe, he glanced about, searching for a way to save his servant. But as his gaze fell to the small figure once more, Harry realized Kreacher wasn't moving. . . . Wasn't  _breathing._

Biting his lip hard, Harry shook his head. Kreacher may have been a miserable old codger of a thing, but he didn't deserve whatever the Death Eaters had done to him.

Their only chance at survival now was to escape the grounds entirely. He needed to return to Hermione and Malfoy, and apparrate as far from Hogwarts as Hermione's afflicted system could handle.

But not empty-handed, if he could help it.

Harry turned, securing his cloak around him as he bolted toward the library.

* * *

Draco bounced up to his feet and paced, wiping a hand down his face. His legs ached from crouching, and Granger hadn't stirred at all. He wasn't even certain how long they'd been there.

Every moment that ticked by was another moment that left him convinced Fenrir would tear through the cave's entrance any second, now. That gnawing sense of impending dread was enough, on its own, to stretch each heartbeat into an eternity.

He jumped at a shuffling sound behind him, whirling on his heel with his wand raised to strike.

Granger shifted against the cave wall, murmuring something.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he stepped back to her. "Merlin's beard, Granger," he said, a nervous chuckle coloring his words.

She didn't appear to hear him, only shifting once more as she went on murmuring.

A worried frown gracing his lips, Draco sat on his heels before her. He lowered his head, bringing his ear close to her mouth.

"Never again shall we forget."

Brow furrowing, he leaned closer, still, certain he misheard her. Yet she repeated those same five words, over and over, like she was chanting.

Something about the whispered sentence chilled him and he straightened up. But then, she'd said being out of contact left her numb. Perhaps that loss of sensation had brought on some bizarre dream?

"Granger?"

When she simply continued on, muttering as she slumbered, he reached out—against his better judgment—and cupped her cheek.

Hermione shuddered, gasping as her eyes snapped open. Instantly she brought her hands up, her fingers locking around Draco's wrist.

"I'm . . . sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you," he whispered, fearful that raising his voice might cause an echo through the cave that would alert one very angry and territorial werewolf to their location.

She seemed to understand his urgency, replying in an equally low voice as she caught her breath, "You didn't. I just—I just forgot for a moment."

Grey eyes rolled fractionally at that. What in all that had happened the last three days could she possibly not remember? "Forgot what?"

She smiled sadly, her expression pained as though she was embarrassed. "Touch," she said, lowering her head and clearing her throat. "I . . . forgot what the sense of touch felt like."

His shoulders drooped as he shook his head. "Granger, listen . . . ."

She lifted her gaze to watch his lips. She could see that he was still speaking, could hear the whispered words, but the syllables were all jumbled and tangled as they met her ears.

He was so close . . . her mind was fuzzy, and she couldn't understand his nearness, but he somehow seemed far, at the same time. His grey eyes flicked back and forth minutely to search hers as he spoke, and she could feel the breath of his words brush over her lips, yet she knew she could only feel that because he was holding her. That acknowledgement made her suddenly and acutely aware of his skin pressing to hers.

Perhaps if she touched him more, she would feel more?

Draco frowned again. He'd explained everything, reminding her of their escape from the Forest manor, describing her ever-so-helpful fainting spell that caused her to be utterly useless for an indeterminate period of time, and their need to find a way to reach Potter. Yet she only blinked up at him, those silver eyes hazy as she tilted her head and held his gaze.

"Granger! Have you understood a thing I've said? We need—"

Hermione lurched forward in his grasp, pressing her mouth to his.

Draco was so caught off-guard by the movement that he toppled backward, with Hermione still on him. He gently nudged her jaw, pushing her face back enough to meet her gaze. "What, um, what are you doing?"

She braced her palms against his shoulders, reluctant to move as she shook her head. "I'm . . . I'm not sure, exactly. I had a hunch, and . . . thought I would try something."

His dark eyebrows shot up into his pale, mussed hair. "You  _kissed_  me because of a hunch?"

She tipped her head to one side, his hand cupping her face, still. They were both painfully aware that her continued lucidity was due to their uninterrupted skin-to-skin contact.

Given that mutual understanding, Hermione didn't feel the need to put her aforementioned hunch into words. "That was  _hardly_  a kiss."

Her face was so close, and they was she was pressed to him . . . . Draco forced a gulp, feeling his cheeks warm. Was she suggesting . . . ? "I don't know what's going through your head, but this is hardly the time or place for this."

She tilted her head lower, so that the tips of their noses nearly touched. "As I understand it, I will probably continue to dwindle, and eventually die if we can't find a cure. Harry might be caught by Death Eaters and  _actually_  killed this time, and you might be torn to shreds by a werewolf who'd gladly use your bones to pick his teeth just because you're in his way. There might never  _be_  a time and place for this."

Draco could feel her breath on his lips. Was she actually making an argument for snogging in the middle of running for their lives? However . . . . "That's a strangely pragmatic sentiment."

"I can be a strangely pragmatic person." Hermione swallowed hard, frowning as she darted her gaze away from his for only the briefest moment. "Especially now. All that we've lost . . . sort of throws the only things we have left into sharp relief, don't you think?"

His brow furrowed as he watched her expression. "You think of me as something you have left?"

"Well," she said, her voice softer than even the rest of their hushed conversation, "aren't you?"

As he was about to answer, she leaned into him, once more pressing her mouth to his. Before he realized what he was doing, he slid his hand from her chin into her hair. He tipped her head to one side and parted her lips with his tongue.

Hermione felt a bloom of warmth and sensation at his entry, kissing him back eagerly. For a breathtaking moment, she thought she could feel every centimeter of her skin again.

She shifted against Draco, holding more tightly to him as she caressed his tongue with her own. All the while, the back of her mind worked to untangle his whispered words from a few minutes earlier.

They needed to get to Harry, Harry was in Hogwarts . . . they were in a cave that led under the forest floor. Perhaps this cave wasn't a cave at all. In fact, if she was judging correctly, then opposite direction of the cave's entrance led  _toward_  Hogwarts.

Breaking the kiss, she asked as she caught her breath, "How far have you gone?"

Draco's jaw fell slack as he stared up at her. Did she have any idea what she'd just said? " _What?_ "

Her brow furrowed. "Into this cave. Are you sure it's just a cave? Could it be a tunnel?"

Though he'd not realized he'd tensed at her initial—poorly worded—question, he was acutely aware of his body relaxing beneath hers. "Merlin's beard, Granger. I—I don't know. I suppose."

She slid one hand up, cover his and tugged it from her hair to interlace their fingers. "C'mon," she said as she scrambled to her feet, pulling him with her to stand. "We should go see where this leads."

He frowned, still a bit disoriented from that unexpected moment, but brought his wand up, illuminating the tip and holding it out for her. "It could be a dead end, and then Fenrir could catch up before we manage to get back out. I'll die, you'll get turned into a werewolf."

Hermione replied without glancing back at him as they walked, "You really  _are_  a pessimist."

"You're right," Draco said with a deliberately exaggerated cheerfulness, "he could just decide to bite us, both! He's probably looking to make more of his kind, anyway."

"That's not what I mean." She tugged his arm forward a bit more, to clasp her free hand around their entwined fingers. "I have a hunch—"

"Another one?"

Silver eyes rolled. "I think this might actually lead to Hogwarts . . . or at least near enough that we can sneak in. We know where  _in_  Hogwarts Harry is going, we might be able to intercept him." Her voice dulled as she added, "If he tries to return to the manor, he might run right into Fenrir."

Draco couldn't help but notice how her steps slowed for a moment as she said that. His lips still tingled from her kiss, and there was an unpleasant twisting sensation in his gut as he realized something. "It could have just as easily been Potter, couldn't it?"

Hermione halted mid-step and turned to face him. "What are you talking about?"

Scowling, he lifted their connected hands. " _This_. That kiss was just because you can feel me, wasn't it?"

She shifted, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. "Well, yes, but that wasn't  _all_. I just thought that—"

"So if it was Potter here with you instead of me, you'd have kissed him."

Her brow furrowed, should couldn't understand why he was getting short with her. Perhaps that was the blood's affect on her ability to comprehend emotion rearing its ugly head, once more. Once, she would have automatically responded that Harry was her best friend—like a brother to her—but at the moment, she wasn't so certain how she felt toward him.

"I . . . I suppose, maybe, but I just—"

"You know what? Never mind." He shook his head, recognizing that he was being ridiculous. He had no ownership over her, nor could he comprehend the bond those two had, and this mess with the unicorn blood was the worst unknown variable imaginable. Maybe thinking she could see him any differently after  _everything_  that had gone on was pure and simple foolishness on his part. Granger was brave, Potter was brave . . . and he was an admitted coward.

He didn't fit.

"You don't owe me any explanations, Granger, let's just go."

Hermione's face fell as she watched him take the lead. Holding his hand between both of hers, still, she waited until his forward motion tugged her into step behind him. The hope that this path would bring them to Harry distracted from the strange tugging in her chest at the idea that she'd just hurt Malfoy. And the strange tugging in her chest at the idea that she'd just hurt Malfoy distracted from the hope that this path would bring them to Harry.

She realized she didn't know what she felt about  _anything_. For a terrifying moment, she questioned if that might mean that she didn't feel anything at all.


	6. Uncertain Intentions

**Chapter Six**

Uncertain Intentions

Stepping into the library, Harry let out a sigh of relief to find the room empty, but the silence set his nerves on edge. He closed the doors behind him as quietly as he could and tapped the seam between them with his wand, locking them, and sealing in any sounds he might make in his search.

He turned on his heel to face the shelves and dropped the hood of his cloak, but didn't remove it—he was too wary that someone still might storm in at any moment, and tossing the hood back into place was a far quicker action than putting the cloak back on. With a determined nod, he made his way to the Restricted Section. He'd work his way back to the main room if that proved fruitless.

Wand drawn, he raised it and closed his eyes. He concentrated on Nicholas Flammel, summoning any volumes with information about the alchemist from their places. Hearing sounds of scraping and shuffling, he opened his eyes to see a few books slide from the shelves and hover in the air, awaiting him.

The tension in his shoulders eased as he directed them gently to the floor. He walked to the first book and picked it up, eager to skim its contents.

Maybe there  _was_  hope, after all.

* * *

Thayer winced as Fenrir tore about the outside of the Forest manor for what had to be the fifth time. He bellowed and growled, terrifying in his anger over being given the slip.

Goyle leaned toward the younger wizard as the two stood on the manor steps, mirroring one another's stances as they kept their arms folded across their chests, and their wands gripped tightly. "How could he have lost their scent? What bloody hell good is he, then?"

"Oy, like I'd know?" Thayer sucked his teeth, his head shaking. He only cared about keeping his voice low enough that he didn't set Fenrir off. "Do I look like a bleedin' lycanthropy expert to you?"

Struck with a rare, bright thought, Goyle rolled his eyes as his frame slumped. "They must've Apparated. It's the only thing that makes sense."

Frowning, Thayer wondered if that rather obvious assumption might have occurred to him—or to  _either_  of them sooner—had they both not been focusing so very much on keeping a safe distance from the enraged werewolf.

Fenrir emerged from around the side of the building sooner than his circling of the area dictated he should have, startling the two already-nervous wizards. Stopping to meet their gazes in turn, he merely curled his lip and turned on a heel, stalking off.

Thayer and Goyle exchanged a look before starting after him. "Fen? Where you headed?" Thayer said, somehow managing to keep the tremor out of his voice.

The beast shook his head, his voice rumbling out of him, deep and guttural. "New plan." Losing the trail of Lord Malfoy's little pain in the arse, and  _his_  own prize, ignited his wrath anew, but there was _one_  scent leading away from the antiquated manor.

Fenrir turned his head to meet Thayer's gaze as they moved through the trees. The young man repressed a shudder at the malevolence in the lycanthrope's eyes.

"We follow Potter," Fenrir growled, a savage grin twisting his lips.

* * *

"So . . . ." Draco paused to help her over a bit of tree root so wide and thick as it cut across the tunnel that it half-filled the already cramped space. "You're telling me this super smooth secret agent character only survives because the villains constantly neglect to kill him outright when they have the chance?"

With a soft giggle, Hermione nodded, careful not to release his hand as she set her feet on the ground. "Exactly." Though, how they'd gotten on the topic of James Bond was beyond her. Oh, wait, she'd made a vague reference to sneaking into an enemy stronghold, like some wizard-version of the fictional spy. Which, of course, led Draco to ask who James Bond was. But then her thoughts were so fuzzy, for all she knew, she might've simply begun spontaneously babbling about the character.

She was relieved that he was no longer focusing on the whole  _It could have been Harry_  issue.

His face pulled into a thoughtful scowl, though he was grateful for a reprieve from thinking on their rather dire circumstances. "Okay, here's the question:  _Why_?"

Shrugging, she said, "They thought a quick death was too simple."

Draco furrowed his brow in question but remained silent

She glanced at him and rolled her eyes in response as she smiled. "They hated him so much that they wanted him to suffer some horribly imaginative torture-death. But that would give him time to think, and then he'd figure a way out, or some extremely lucky thing would happen and give him the opportunity to break free."

"So . . . it's kind of like Potter and Voldemort, really."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up and she stopped in her tracks as she turned to face him. "How do you figure?"

He pivoted on a heel, meeting her eyes. Merlin, the tunnel must be getting narrower by increments. He'd not realized they stood so close together. After that kiss—that really, _really_  great kiss—he wasn't certain how he felt about having her so near that she had to tip her head back to hold his gaze. While circumstance forced her to hold his hand, no less.

He cleared his throat, trying for the noise to not come across as one born of awkwardness. "Well," he said shrugging, "after he tried to kill Potter during the Triwizard Tournament, Voldemort could've sent anyone in his sway after Potter. But he didn't, because  _he_  wanted to do it himself and have this _perfect_  timing, and have it be this big, public, messy thing. That only gave Potter time to get stronger and actually  _become_  his equal."

She laughed, nodding—and oblivious to the gulp he forced down his throat at the light and warmth in that sound—as her eyebrows lifted. "So Voldemort allowed Harry to be the death of him by acting like a James Bond villain. I'll have to remember to tell him about the comparison if I make it through this."

Draco's face fell, a spot of ice forming in the pit of his stomach. He could tell from her tone that her statement was facetious, but still . . . . Biting his lip as he shook his head, he could only stare back at her for a long, silent moment.

Unable to help himself, he lifted his free hand to cup her cheek.

Her brow furrowed as she held his gaze. "Draco?"

With another gulp and another shake of his head, he said, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be weird."

Hermione arched a brow. "I don't think you're being weird."

"I haven't said the thing I was getting to, yet." His expression was mildly affronted.

Laughing again, she nodded. "Oh, okay. Sorry."

"I was trying to say how strange it is that I still remember clearly when we were twelve and I said I wished the monster from the Chamber of Secrets would kill you. And now here we are with me trying to help Potter save your life, and you . . .  _believing_  that I can."

She became aware of the distant, humming sensation of butterflies zipping around in her stomach as she stared up at him. Her lips tingled, a pleasant shock against the backdrop of so many other dulled feelings as of late.

"I want to kiss you, again," she said breathlessly, before she could even stop the words from spilling out.

His eyes flashed wider for the briefest second and then narrowed ever so slightly as his face tightened. "Thoughts clouding over again?" There was a subdued, but clinical iciness to the question, making her wonder if he was trying to be realistic, rather than hurt.

She was glad she could analyze his emotions without having to put in an effort to do so. It meant she was—at least for the time being—able to think clearly on her own. Brow furrowing, she simply blinked as she said, "No."

He bit his lip, holding her gaze as expression softened a little. Was he really having a moment like  _this_  with Hermione Granger? "So why?"

Once more, her brow furrowed, this time as though she didn't understand the question. "Because I  _want_  to."

Nearly before he realized he'd moved, Draco ducked his head, covering her mouth with his own.

Hermione tilted her head, giving in easily and opening to him. She knew there was something they were supposed to be doing . . . some urgent reason they'd been making their way down this tunnel—was something after them? Yes, she dimly recalled something like that, but she couldn't focus on that just now. Not as she eagerly caressed his tongue with her own and gripped her hands into his shirtfront to pull him closer.

Not as his fingers slipped away from her face so that he could clamp his hands over her hips. He moved her a few steps, pressing her back to the tunnel wall as he leaned into her.

* * *

"Lucius?" Narcissa called as she entered what had been the Head Master's office on delicate footsteps.

His sleek, pale head popped up from behind the desk. "Hmm?"

Arching a perfect brow, she stepped further into the room. As she drew closer, she saw that he knelt on the floor and was—or at least clearly had been a moment prior—rifling through a set of short, gold-lacquered cabinets hidden from view at many angles by the desk.

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open in a small  _O_. She merely watched for a moment as he went back to plucking books and scrolls from the shelves and perusing them.

After a long moment filled with nothing but the sounds of parchment shuffling, she asked, "Whatever are you doing, my love?"

"Albus Dumbledore was a crafty old man; both h _ighly_ intelligent and quite guarded. He has information contained in these walls that no one even knows exists."

The reason for his rash curiosity was immediately obvious to her. "You're looking for another copy of that prophecy?"

He nodded, but didn't look up as he carelessly tossed aside the book he'd been checking and picked up a scroll. "Yes. I want to see if there was more to it than I recall."

She held in a sigh. Certainly, if this prophecy was true—and being faced with the sudden existence of not one, but  _two_  silver-eyed beings, she was tempted to believe it was—then there was no telling what it could mean for the Wizarding world. But she did worry about how much Lucius' belief in it had seemed to consume his thoughts. Perhaps, she told herself in a hopeful inward tone, this was simply his way of distracting himself from knowing that their son was out there, rather than by their side.

Clenching her hands into fists so tight her nails dug into her palms, she forcefully ignored the terrible idea that if they didn't find Miss Granger, than whatever the prophecy brought them rested upon the beastly shoulders of a vile creature like Fenrir Greyback. Narcissa repressed a shudder, working harder to bury the thought as she plastered a smile in place.

"Is there anything I can do to assist you?"

Lucius sat up, his grey eyes lighting in a way she'd not seen since before the War. "You know, there is. Would you go to the Library? There's many forgotten books in the Restricted Section, check the volumes on prophecies for anything that might have bearing on this."

She kept the smile in place as she nodded. "Of course, dear."

As she turned on her heel and headed back out of the room, she held in an aggravated groan. Aggravated groans were not ladylike, but honestly, this was servant's work! If not that he wanted to keep his precious prophecy a secret, neither of them would be relegated to such menial tasks.

By the time she reached the Library, her unrefined flash of temper had settled. She needed her wits about her, she seemed the only one who feared for the well-being of that girl, should Fenrir be left alone with her after he found her. The very thought of being touched by that beast-man was revolting, let alone the disturbing idea of being . . .  _claimed_  by him . . . . She paused as she put a hands on the doors, allowing a shiver to wrack her so that she might get the sensation out of her system.

She pulled, but the doors would not open. Frowning, she stepped back and examined them. Could they be stuck?

* * *

Harry's head snapped up from his reading at the sound of someone pulling at the doors. Cursing under his breath, he threw up his hood and tucked the book in his hands beneath his cloak.

Hurrying into the main room of the Library, he gave a flick of his wand, unsealing the doors. If anyone with half a brain was left to wonder about the entrance being magically blocked, they might come to suspect they had an intruder. Death Eaters on high alert was the last thing he needed.

The doors eased ope, and Narcissa Malfoy appeared. Unlike her ruffled appearance following the battle, she was her usual, elegant self, once more. The suspicious way her gaze moved over the doors as she stepped inside caused Harry to hold in a sigh of relief at having heard her attempts to enter when he had.

* * *

Draco's teeth sank into his bottom lip as his head fell back. The way she pressed against him as she stood on her toes, dragging her lips and the very edge of her teeth over the skin of his throat was . . . . Well, there were  _no_  words for it, really.

His eyes opened a little and he noticed a bit of muted light reflecting off the wall, just above her head. He followed the illumination with his gaze, only to find precisely what they'd been hoping for.

Yet his shoulders slumped and a displeased sigh rumbled out of him.

Before she could respond to his instant change in demeanor he shifted, nudging her head up to kiss her, deep and rough once more, before he broke it off. Waiting for her eyes to open, he slid his hands over hers where they gripped his shirt.

She blinked rapidly a few times, a bit disoriented. As his face swam into focus, she was strangely warmed to see that his skin was flushed and his eyes looked just little hazy. "What's wrong?"

"Wrong?" It took him a moment to realize she thought he'd stopped because she was  _doing_  something wrong. Honestly, with what she'd been doing, he hadn't even minded that the way she'd placed her hands had meant he'd had a wand pointed at the underside of his jaw the entire time. "Oh!" His eyebrows shot up. "No, no, nothing, just . . . we're here for a reason, remember?"

He nodded, guiding her gaze toward the grated opening in the ceiling of the tunnel, just a few meters from them.

"Do you think that leads into Hogwarts?"

Draco nodded. "I remember that design. We should come up in the dungeons."

A smile spread across her lips and she popped forward—still grateful for her momentary ability to feel _and_  think clearly at the same time, and determined to make the most of it—to kiss him again. A quick, chaste planting of her mouth on his, before she bounced backward, moving her hands beneath his to interlace their fingers. "C'mon, then, Draco Malfoy. Let's go help save my life."

* * *

Thayer felt a coil of ice-cold uncertainty unwind in the pit of his stomach. Goyle was too busy grousing about wild goose chases as he stormed along behind and increasingly agitated Fenrir to notice their direction, apparently.

The familiar path led him to drop his gaze. Surely, there beneath his feet, he could make out their own shoe impressions from a few hours earlier. He forced a gulp and looked up once more as he hurried after them. Fenrir was following Potter's scent, and it was leading them right back to the castle.

He winced as he imagined the scene that would unfold if the Malfoys found the boy before the werewolf did. Fenrir's thoughts were  _not_  right—more savage, and far less reasonable than usual, and  _that_  was saying something. If he mistakenly thought they were trying to trick him, or that they were attempting to shield the young wizard from his rage . . . .

_This_  wasn't going to be pretty.


	7. Raw Moments

**Chapter Seven**

Raw Moments

Forcing a gulp down his throat, Draco stretched, standing on the tips of his toes and craning his neck to peer up through the spaces in the grate above their heads. Luckily, the tunnel had narrowed enough that twisting metal wasn't too high for him to reach.

No sounds reached their ears from the floor above, nor did he see any shifting of light to indicate movement. He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath, hoping to God that meant no one was in the dungeons, at all.

He turned to her, momentarily startled by the way the light from the room above the grate reflected in those silver irises. She only stared back at him, clearly unaware of what caused the sad expression drifting across his features, which managed to make him feel worse.

Shaking his head, he cleared his throat, deliberately ignoring the way her brow furrowed in question. "The grate might be stuck. If it is, do you think you think now you might be strong enough to handle Apparating? It's only the few meters travel, after all."

Hermione bit her lip as she nodded. She thought she understood what the look he'd given her meant, now. She was such a useless thing in a moment like this. He could have been long gone from this mess, free from Death Eaters and bloodthirsty werewolves, but he'd stayed to help  _her_.

And her current state made her a hindrance to him.

"You don't have to stay, you know," she said, the words tumbling from her lips before she even realized she'd spoken.

Grey eyes flashed wide in surprise at her statement. "What?"

Biting her lip once more, she backpedaled, but she clung to his fingers still so that their arms outstretched. She swallowed hard, the sound of it so very loud in the cramped, earthen space around them.

Once more, she said, "You don't have to stay. It's okay." The numbness was setting in, despite that she was touching him. An uncomfortable lump of ice lodged itself in the center of her chest and began radiating outward.

Draco saw the change in her instantly. The dull sheen that entered her eyes, the way her fingers went slack in his grasp. It worried him—by all they'd observed of her condition, she should  _not_ be losing sensation now.

But then neither of them were stupid. He grasped the connection between what  _she_  clearly thought he was feeling and the moment she started looking lifeless and doll-like, again. He understood that her belief that he wanted to leave made her feel abandoned.

Yet this was no time for sentimentality. They'd wasted enough of it already, hadn't they? There would be nothing more imprudent at the moment than to stop in the middle of what they were doing to explain what was  _actually_  going on in his head and heart. . . . And in one other area of thought—but  _that_ was a matter for a time after she was cured, wasn't it?

Using his hand on hers, he pulled her close. He slid his free hand into her hair as he brought his mouth crashing down on hers. The way she parted her lips against his, gasping so that she drew the air from him, made him shiver.

He broke the kiss, meeting her livened metallic gaze. "Not going anywhere, Granger. Now, I've got to let go of you so I can see if this grate will move, all right?"

Nodding, she let his fingers slip away from her, her eyes wandering the expanse of tunnel behind them. She focused on sights and sounds coming from the other end—Hermione'd finally remembered they were fleeing something, not merely trying to track down Harry.

A terrible, itching cold crept along her skin before she began to feel the void wrapping around her. Draco grunted as he lifted his arms to push upward, drawing her gaze back to him. Her silver eyes traced his form while he stretched, head tipping to one side as a thought occurred to her.

His fingers gripped into the grate for purchase and he began wedging the metal back and forth. He didn't feel his shirt tugging out of the top of his trousers until after it had happened and Hermione's hand was pressed to the bare skin of his abdomen.

She let out one of those trembling breaths. He could feel the tremor of her body against his.

Did she really have  _no_ idea what she was doing to him? Or could she simply not appreciate it in her current state?

He dropped his gaze to find that she'd returned to watching the far end of the tunnel. "Granger, what the bloody hell . . . ?"

She immediately snapped her attention to him. Her silver eyes were huge and . . . .  _Utterly clueless_ , he thought bitterly. Of course, she was.

"Sorry," she said softly, realizing what she'd done. "I wasn't thinking." Yet even as she said that, she didn't pull her hand from him.

After a moment of staring at her as he shook his head, he finally returned to pushing the grate back and forth. "You just _wait_  'til you're cured, Granger," he said, muttering the words.

Hermione furrowed her brow as she tried to make sense of what he meant. It sounded like a threat, but there was a warm, gravelly pitch to his tone that made his intent seem something  _other_ , entirely.

She pretended she didn't notice the blush she felt flaring in her cheeks as she went back to playing lookout.

* * *

Narcissa stepped carefully through the library. Her pale gaze skimmed the shelves as she made her way toward the Restricted Section.

The books laid on the floor caught her attention immediately. The entirety of the main room was untouched. Lifting her head to look over the shelves, she saw the spaces from which they were drawn. Each misplaced volume lined up with an empty spot in the book cases.

With stilted, almost birdlike motions, she looked around, again. Walking back out into the main section, she took in the entire room.

Despite the War that had raged outside these walls, the Library hadn't a scroll or page out of place. Nodding to herself, she leaned around the partition separating the main room from the Restricted Section.

"Someone was looking for something," she said, her voice soft.

None of the Dark wizards or witches, nor the Death Eaters themselves had been in this room, that she was aware of. Which could only mean this had happened during—or just before—the battle.

Brow furrowing, she drew her wand and summoned the books into a stack before her. Lifting the first tome, she skimmed its table of contents, and then its index, before setting it aside and moving onto the next one.

Lucius' task could wait. She was far too curious what someone had deemed so urgent that they'd ignored the Battle to visit the Library.

* * *

Harry eased backward, into a dark corner of the Library's enormous bookcases as he waited for her to leave. If she ever would and at the moment, it seemed like she might not.

But then she whispered that sentence which made a ball of ice drop into the pit of his stomach.  _Someone was looking for something._  Well, the Malfoys were a sharp lot, he'd give them that. She was probably a bit off-base, but anyone else might've overlooked the books on the floor, entirely.

It didn't matter, though. Even if she guessed what he was researching, she would have no idea why—not exactly—nor the faintest notion what he needed the information for. She still wouldn't know he was even there.

Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief at that realization.

_Time to check the headmaster's office_ , he thought. He could come back to the Library afterward. It was a painful thought, the idea that he'd be standing in that office without Dumbledore, yet with the knowledge of what Snape had sacrificed for them all. Never before had he had any true appreciation for Severus Snape's suffering . . . .

Now he found himself strangely glad the man hadn't lived to see all that sacrifice gone to waste.

He knew something else stood in his way as he neared the spiraling lift to the head master's quarters. The lift was lowered, the staircase exposed. Dipping his head inside the conspicuously open doorway, he could hear someone rummaging about.

Frowning darkly—if he found Dark wizards in there destroying the place, he couldn't be certain he wouldn't compromise his task by coming out of hiding to curse the lot of them—he drew his wand once more and started up to the room.

* * *

"Merlin's Beard," Goyle said, nearly growling the words. "He's leading us back to Hogwarts!"

Fenrir paid no mind to the whining man. Thayer, however, paused entirely, swiveling in place to pin the older wizard with a look that was mix of impatience and disbelief.

Goyle caught the choreographed motion from the corner of his eye. Halting himself and turning to face the young man, he shrugged. "What?"

Thayer's dark eyes widened further, still. Casting a pointed glance down the path and then bringing his attention back to Goyle, he said in an exasperated tumble of words, "Did you really only  _just_  notice that?"

The skin around Goyle's eyes tightened as he shook his head, his face twisting up in an unpleasant expression. "So what if I did?"

Now he understood; _now_  the situation was clear to Thayer. Because of how easily cowed he was by Lord Malfoy and how timid he showed himself in the wake of Fenrir's unpredictable rage, Goyle thought him a coward. This thick, useless lump of a man thought he had someone he could push around.

Well, Thayer considered as he nodded to his own thoughts, he wasn't a coward, but Goyle  _was_  thick.

"I get why Lord Malfoy sent you with us, sir," he said, grinning brightly. This was a pleasant distraction from worrying about Fenrir's tantrums.

"Clearly he thought you can't keep your friend there in line." Despite the certainty with which Goyle talked, the way he stood straighter and rolled his shoulders as the words fell from his lips spoke volumes.

"Really?" Thayer shook his head, his dark, shaggy hair brushing his collar as he chuckled. "'Cause I realized we were headed back to the castle a bleedin' hour ago! You noticed it now . . .  _now_! It's  _right_  there, i'n it?"

Goyle squared his jaw. "Maybe I was too distracted with keeping an eye on that rabid werewolf of yours to notice."

Pearly teeth shone as Thayer let out a laugh. "No, you daft bastard! It's because you're  _thick_. You're  _so_  thick Lord Malfoy sent you with us so you wouldn't get under his feet!"

"I won't be spoken to like this by some pretty-boy barely out of diapers!" Goyle reached for his wand. To his chagrin, the younger wizard was faster; moving second, yet his wand drawn and at the ready in the same moment.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Thayer said, hearing the crunching of leaves beneath the sound of his own voice. Finally Fenrir had realized they weren't following and circled back. He didn't really care though, he needed this distraction from how surreal the situation had become. "Big, scary Death Eater can't handle being sassed by a pretty-boy?"

"I can. I just don't _have_  to." Goyle smirked—Thayer wondered briefly if he wasn't intentionally mimicking Lord Malfoy's most infamous expression—as he aimed. "Avada—"

"Stupefy!"

Goyle flew back. Before he even hit the ground, the werewolf barreled past Thayer. Wand lowering, the younger wizard watched in a mingling of shock and disgust as Fenrir caught Goyle's stricken form, set him on the ground . . . and began tearing into his throat.

Yet is wasn't only his teeth. The beast's claws hacked and shred into Goyle's chest and arms. A feral rumbling sounded from the back of Fenrir's throat as he feasted.

Putting away his wand, Thayer stepped in a wide, careful circle around the creature. He pressed the back of one leather-cuffed wrist against his mouth as he watched, nauseated by the spectacle, but too overcome with simple,  _imperfect_  morbid curiosity to look away.

When at last Fenrir raised his head, his chin and mouth were stained crimson. To his extreme displeasure, Thayer noticed bits of flesh caught in the stubble there.

Fenrir stood and began loping toward the castle once more. Realizing the young man didn't follow he turned on a heel.

A thousand things swept through Thayer's mind. Turning and running were immediately discounted, as he imagined that would land him a fate similar to that of the thick, useless lump on the Forest floor barely two meters from him. Stunning or petrifying the werewolf seemed out of the question, as well. He'd probably have the beast's teeth sunk into his neck before he could finish half the incantation.

"What?" Fenrir asked, impatience lacing his tone.

Thayer's mouth dropped open, but nothing came so he closed it. Nodding as he swallowed hard, he tried again. "You've . . . ." He made a waving gesture toward his own face. "You've got a bit of Goyle on your chin."

Fenrir carelessly wiped his face with the back of his arm—as though he was just told he'd dribbled a bit of juice—and turned. Starting toward the castle again, he said, "If we miss Potter, I'm going to be  _angry_."

Swallowing hard once more, Thayer shook his head. He quickened his pace, eager to not irritate the creature any further. Yet, he couldn't help the sudden need to find out. "Why'd you attack him?"

"He was going to kill you."

Thayer's brows shot up. "I  _stopped_  him."

Fenrir shrugged his massive shoulders.

"He was a Death Eater."

"So?" Fenrir turned to face the young wizard for a moment, a rare second of lucidity gleaming in his eyes. "You're my friend. Anyone's gonna kill you, it'll be  _me_."

Thayer repressed a shudder.  _Thanks, Fen_ , he thought, uncertain if he should be flattered or terrified.


	8. Crashing Down

**Chapter Eight**

Crashing Down

Hermione dreaded the moments after Draco had boosted her into the dungeon—moments for which he'd had to relinquish any hold on her to pull himself up through the hole in the floor. Yet, as quickly as that terror set in, it had vanished.

She stood pin-straight, darting her gaze about the wide, darkened space as she listened to the sounds of him shuffling against the floor. In her periphery, she could see him stand up and dust himself off.

Try as she might, she couldn't focus on him just now. There was something . . . . Something just beneath her awareness she was trying to catch. Was it . . . . She shook her head, her silver eyes narrowed. A memory? Something she was supposed to do?

No. Find Harry—that was a clear and distinct thought. Avoid Fenrir—equally clear and distinct. Do not get caught—perhaps the clearest of them, all.

Something else. Uncertainty twisted in the pit of her stomach and then stopped; a touch of ice skimmed along her skin and then ceased. Once more, the void snapped into being around her and she realized those momentary flashes of heightened sensation were some sort of signal of her impending numbness.

The recognition was jarring—as though her body was fighting to feel one last, sharp thing, before she lost the ability to feel anything. Her brow furrowed. Was this her own doing, somehow? Was she trying to give herself memories of sensation to cling to while numb?

Hermione was certain it wasn't working, as even though she puzzled over that in a quiet corner of her mind, in the forefront of her thoughts, she fished and searched for this fragile, elusive memory she couldn't quite catch.

Perhaps it was something she'd dreamed?

Her face scrunched in determination as she tried to grasp a fleeting image. Was that . . . a unicorn? Not the one Fenrir had killed, no. She didn't know how she realized that, it simply . . .  _felt_ different.

And . . . flickering light. Campfire, perhaps?

Draco's hand slid around hers and the memory fell away as life and sensation flooded back into her.

She shuddered, stumbling in place. Holding her hand, still, he caught her with an arm around her shoulders.

"Hey, hey, I'm sorry, it couldn't be helped." He shifted and angled his head to peer into her face. "Are you all right?"

Hermione forced a nod as she drew in a deep breath. "Yes, I . . . I think so. It's just still disconcerting, is all." She didn't like omitting things from him, given their circumstances, but she didn't know how to explain the odd fragmented imagery, nor the half-remembered thoughts and sensations to him, either.

He didn't like the way her eyes looked as she nodded. The silver of her irises seemed . . . perhaps  _clearer_ , now? More crystalline and metallic than they'd been before.

Draco kept the observation to himself, uncertain what it meant, but he knew he wasn't going to lose touch with her again, if he could help it. Whatever was happening to her, any lapses in physical contact seemed to expedite the process.

He nodded back, plastering a small smile in place. "Right, okay. Let's get moving, then." He kept a firm grip on her hand as he let his arm drop from around her shoulders and started through the dungeon.

* * *

A dark frown marring his features, Harry crept closer to Lucius.

"Silver eyes, silver eyes," the older wizard muttered, stopping Harry short.

"Why are you not here?" Lucius stood, his hands balled into fists as he propped them on his hips. Exhaling sharply through flared nostrils, he brought his displeased gaze up to rest on Dumbledore's portrait. "Even from the grave you stymie efforts to improve our world!"

Of all the wizards in the world who might have held such information, he'd have imagined Albus Dumbledore to be the one, but there was nothing here which even  _hinted_  at the ancient prophecy!

_Silver eyes?_  His wand lowering as his arm fell to his side, Harry shrank back, his eyes enormous beneath the hood of his Cloak. His shoulders drooped suddenly with the weight of understanding Kreecher's death. The elf hadn't simply been killed for being  _his_ servant—as he would have concluded, had he the luxury of time to think at the moment he'd stumbled upon that horrible scene—he'd been tortured for information.

The Death Eaters knew about Hermione! He had to get back to the Forest manor so he and Draco could get her as far away from here as possible. Heart hammering in his chest, Harry spun on his heel and bolted out the door.

* * *

Narcissa's brows shot up as she scanned the index of the fourth book. Another book with an entry about Nicholas Flammel . . . . Two people who'd ingested unicorn blood—only one of whom had been in the castle, and he certainly wasn't intelligent enough to work out the connection for himself—and now someone researching into the creator of the now-destroyed Sorcerer's Stone?

Shaking her head, she snapped the book shut and called the texts into a stack before her. Gathering the tidy pile into her arms, she headed for the doors, her elegant stride nearly more hurried than her ladylike demeanor allowed.

* * *

Harry jetted down the corridor, glancing back over his shoulder toward the Headmaster's office, once more. This was bad, really, really bad, he thought. He couldn't think about what they might possibly want with Hermione, but he'd be lying if he tried to tell himself he wasn't curious what it was they knew about her condition that he didn't.

The sound of light, quick footfalls drew his attention and he whipped his head back around to see Narcissa Malfoy stalking his way. He stepped aside just in time to stop her from bumping into him.

That wasn't what made him nervous, no. What lodged his heart in his throat was that she darted past him with the books he'd drawn out in her slender, black-sleeved arms.

Eyes rolling, he turned on his heel and followed her. He hoped that whatever conversation might spring between the new leaders of the Death Eaters might give him more information.

* * *

Draco stepped out into the main corridor, his head held high and his shoulders squared, looking every bit as though he had the right to be there. If what Potter'd said was true, than his presence might be a shock, surely, but he'd be welcomed. What better way to play lookout? It would be the perfect ruse, as long as nobody noticed the way he held one hand behind himself. After a strained moment of listening and hearing nothing, of darting his gaze about and seeing no one, his lanky body drooped and he turned back to where Hermione was ducked around the bend of the stairwell, one of her dainty hands clinging to his from the shadows.

"C'mon, it's clear."

Hermione nodded, feeling a bit ridiculous in the thick, black cloak he'd nicked from one of the dormitory rooms in the dungeon. Pulling the dark material tighter around herself, she stepped out to follow him.

They hurried through the corridor toward the staircase that would take them to the library, and he tugged her behind him as they neared the Great Hall's open double doors. He ducked his head around the entryway, peering into the massive chamber.

"Okay, no one's . . . ."

The way his words slid off caused distant alarm bells to ring in Hermione's skull. Blinking drowsily, she tried to step around him to see what caused his distress. "Draco, what—?"

He spun suddenly and stood painfully straight, blocking her view of the room by sheer matter of his height over her. "Granger, trust me, you don't want to see what's in there."

Those silver eyes rolled eloquently at him, her lids fluttering almost prettily. "Oh, please, Draco Malfoy. After living through the horrors of war, and what we've been through the last few days, do you really think whatever's in there is something I can't handle?"

Before he could work up another protest, she'd already used her hand on his to raise his arm & slipped under it. He twisted around, his expression pinching as he braced for her reaction, his gaze on the tattered, bloodied and bruised little heap on the floor over her shoulder.

"Oh . . . ." Hermione felt her lower lip tremble and pull into a pout. "Oh my God, Kreecher . . . ." She shook her head, uncertain how to process the sight before her. "I don't understand why they'd do this!"

Draco pulled her away from the Great Hall and she reluctantly backpedaled. Only when she finally turned on a heel to face him, peering up at him from beneath the voluminous, dark hood with those silver eyes enormous and her mouth still fixed in a pout, did he let out a sigh, giving a head shake of his own.

He dared to lean down, brushing his lips over hers. The quick kiss stole a quiet gasp from her, and he knew he had her complete attention—at least, as complete as she could muster—once more. "I told you not to look," he said in a whisper.

"I know," she whispered back, nodding. "I just don't understand why."

"Neither do I," he admitted, forcing a gulp down his throat, "but we shouldn't linger out here in the open, like this."

With a glance back toward the Great Hall, she nodded. "You're right, of course. Let's go."

Draco started up the stairs, and as Hermione moved to follow him, she felt the wind get knocked out of her. She lost her grip on his hand, clutching her hands to her chest as she fell to her knees.

He dropped beside her, pulling her up to try to look into her face. "Hermione! What's wrong?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but all that escaped were harsh, stuttering breaths. Hermione felt her eyes welling from the fear pounding through her, but couldn't form the words to warn him . . . couldn't make her muscles and limbs respond to her commands to get up and _run._

At first, Draco's panicked mind worried that her cursed half-life was catching up to her, but then he recalled . . . . He'd seen her like this earlier that morning.

Earlier, when . . . . Curling around her protectively, he raised his free arm, holding his wand at the ready as he looked around. He was certain she could feel the hammering of his heart against her back as he waited.

* * *

Harry listened, tense, his entire frame rigid, as Narcissa explained what she'd found in the library. All the while, Lucius nodded and  _hmm'ed,_ sounding more and more intrigued as she went on, drawing her conclusion.

He was invisible to them, but he still couldn't help his caution, he'd kept himself tucked away behind the wall. Now he couldn't help tipping his head to look around at their expressions.

A smile—crafty, yet delighted, Harry thought—curved the Slytherin wizard's lips. "I do believe you are correct, dear wife. Which can only mean that we have a guest."

Harry didn't stick around to hear any further realizations, he spun and darted down toward the staircase.

He realized he must've bumped something on his way, because though they could not see him, he heard the footsteps of the Malfoys trailing not far behind him. He was sure they must believe they'd been overheard, but simply lost sight of their intruder. That made perfect sense, and they certainly had their wits about them.

As he gratefully reached the stairs, he heard the crash and the sound of wood splintering. Too late, he saw the pale hair of Draco Malfoy on the floor below. He understood with a terrible, foggy delay who the cloaked figure Draco was wrapped around must be.

Harry wasn't close enough to react as the castle's door appeared to buckle and flew open. Sooner than he could move, Fenrir barreled inside.

Raising his wand beneath his Cloak, Harry hurried down the steps, but somehow Draco reacted faster than he could reach them—maybe Draco'd had some warning the rest of them hadn't—and the Stunning Spell shot forth, hitting the werewolf dead-on.

As the beast fell to the floor, an oddly relieved looking young wizard in his shadow, a voice rang out from behind Harry.

"Draco!"

Harry managed to sidestep the Malfoys as they darted down the staircase.

In the sudden calm, Draco couldn't help snapping his attention to the sound of his mother's voice calling out to him. He was grappling with the realization that  _he'd_  just taken down Fenrir Greyback without a second thought, nor a moment's hesitation.

Hermione felt the fear drain from her, slow and painful, like a needle being drawn out of her skin. She collapsed against Draco, her breathing labored. She found no comfort there, as his frame was still tensed. As she slowly regained her bearings, she remembered where they were . . . recalled the voice that rang out just a moment ago.

She turned her head toward the sound of footfalls drawing near. Blinking rapidly at the two pairs of feet that stopped before them, she looked up.

Narcissa Malfoy's relief turned to shock as she saw the person huddled against her son, though she should have known who it would be, she thought. Perhaps it was not so much the girl's identity, as the sight of those clear, perfect metallic eyes—brighter and more crystalline than Fenrir's—staring up at her.

"Draco, you return to us," Lucius Malfoy said in a whisper, a smile gracing his lips as his gaze moved from the girl, to his son, and back. "And you bring quite the special prize."

Hermione turned in Draco's arms, sharing a bewildered look with him, before they both turned back to give his parents expressions that were fear and puzzlement, combined.

* * *

Harry pocketed his wand and continued down the stairs to stand on the outskirts of the group. He watched Fenrir warily and pulled the Cloak tighter around himself. He needed to know what was happening—their prize, what could that possibly mean—but if they caught him now, he'd never get Hermione away from them.


	9. Wolf Bait

**Chapter Nine**

Wolf Bait

Harry kept his distance from the small group, remaining as motionless as he could manage. The Malfoys would likely chock up the mess in the library to Draco and Hermione, at least for the moment. Getting himself caught, too, would only make the entire situation worse  _and_  lessen Hermione's chances.

As Hermione and Draco stared up at the Malfoys, Lucius' expression twisted into one of cold calculation—a look Draco and Narcissa recognized in an instant. The Malfoy patriarch's gaze darted from the silver-eyed girl before him, to the incapacitated werewolf mere meters away, and back.

Ignoring whatever her husband was pondering this time—though, she was reluctant to admit that his recent behavior made her a bit afraid to wonder about what ideas ran through his head, at all—Narcissa delicately lowered to her knees beside her son. Relief at his return coursed through her, still, causing her limbs to tremble ever so slightly as she slipped her arms around his shoulders in a loose hug.

As she embraced him, she noticed that he had yet to drop his arm from around Miss Granger. His entire frame was rigid, and she found herself scrambling to understand the hard edge to his demeanor.

Perhaps he feared punishment for running away?

Leaning back, she placed her hands on his upper arms and met his gaze. "Draco, everything's all right now. You have returned, that is all that matters for the moment."

The young man recoiled, making an awkward attempt to shove Hermione behind him without releasing her. "Everything is not all right, Mother! You sent  _Fenrir Greyback_  after us—you're only lucky he didn't catch up to us until now! And I saw his eyes. What did you  _do_  to him?"

"What do you mean by calling me a  _prize_?" Hermione asked, her gaze unerringly landing on Lucius Malfoy's.

The Mudblood girl's voice caused Narcissa's breath to catch in her throat. There was something about it . . . it sounded hollower than she recalled, yet was oddly crystalline at the same time. Like wind chimes, perhaps.

Lucius didn't answer Hermione's question, instead turning his attention to Draco. "We? We did nothing to Fenrir, he made himself that way."

Stepping over to them, Lucius reached down and slipped a hand around Hermione's upper arm, yanking her to her feet and away from Draco. Draco shot up, quickly latching his fingers around the girl's wrist and moving to stand beside her.

"Oh, no." Lucius' eyes narrowed as he met his son's gaze. " _You_  are in quite enough trouble."

"Lucius . . ." Narcissa said softly, caution in her tone.

"I am taking her to the dungeon—"

"What? Why?" Hermione demanded, trying to pull out of his grasp and failing.

The elder wizard looked to her with feigned compassion in his slate-grey eyes. "Because that's what one does with a prisoner, my dear girl." He turned his head to regard his son once more. "And you  _abandoned_  us. I suggest you watch your step, or you will find yourself in a cell, right beside hers."

"So do it." Draco couldn't help the tiniest flaring of panic as he wondered what would become of Hermione in this state without him, or Potter, nearby. At least if he was in the cell beside hers, he could help her; he could keep her  _herself_.

Narcissa climbed to her feet, a protest of her husband's words on her lips, but the girl beat her to it.

"Draco, please," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Go with your mother."

Draco's heart dropped into his stomach, his eyes widening as he blinked at her. "What?"

She tugged at her arm again, but Lucius held fast. Sighing, she looked up at the man. "I'll go, but can I just have a moment please?"

"You must be joking, Miss Granger."

The girl's silver-eyed stare hardened and she squared her shoulders as she said, "You clearly want me alive for a reason, and you're about to stick me in a  _cage_. A moment is  _not_  too much to ask, under those circumstances."

Lucius' eyebrows shot up and he exchanged a surprised glance with his wife, to find she mirrored his expression. Fenrir had become more animal-like, indeed more feral, while the girl had maintained herself, and now had an air about her . . . as though she simply _knew_  her words would be heeded.

He relinquished his hold, but drew his wand at the same time, training it on her.

The touch of Lucius' hand had done nothing, and Hermione could already feel herself slipping. It truly  _was_  only Draco and Harry keeping the void at bay, though there was precious little she could do about that realization just now. She lunged forward, throwing her arms around Draco's neck and holding him tightly.

Narcissa averted her gaze, feeling uncomfortable suddenly, while Lucius shook his head, his eyes rolling. A Mudblood with his son, honestly! But then, he supposed he  _could_  look at this as a positive thing. As that dreadful elf put it, she wasn't a Mudblood, anymore. She was something  _else,_ and Draco was now closely connected to whatever that something was.

Hermione shuddered in Draco's arms, sensation snapping back into her being. He held her tight, hoping his parents didn't notice her reaction. He didn't know what they were planning—or what Hermione could possibly have to do with it—and so wanted to limit their awareness of her condition's bizarre intricacies.

"You _have_  to stay free," she whispered, her voice so low he only just heard her words. He ignored, for the moment, the brushing of her lips against his ear—this wasn't the time or place to notice it, really—only mindful of keeping his skin pressed firmly to hers as she spoke.

"You _can't_  be down there alone," he said, trying to make his voice as quite as hers, the movement of his lips hidden by her hair.

"If we're both down there and Harry gets caught, then we're  _all_  out of luck. One of us needs the freedom to go about this castle as they please and find him."

"Granger—"

She pulled back in his arms, meeting his gaze. "Please, Draco, just go with your mother. I'll be fine."

His eyes were wide, the glint in them frantic. Even in her strange state, how could she be so calm? "No, you won't!"

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she stepped away from him and turned to face Lucius. Lord Malfoy reclaimed his hold on her arm and began leading her away.

"Granger!"

Her steps only faltered a moment as she let his voice echo through her head.

"Draco, please, listen to her," Narcissa said, linking an arm around her son's and tugging him toward the staircase.

Draco turned his head as he relented and allowed his mother to pull him along. As he watched Hermione disappear, back down the steps to the dungeon, he saw movement.

There was an odd ripple of motion in the air, and then, Potter's face appeared as the Gryffindor wizard lowered the hood of his Invisibility Cloak just a little.

Relief washing through him, Draco's shoulders sagged—Potter had been there the entire time. He knew  _exactly_  what was happening.

Nodding, Harry righted his hood, and then raced up the steps behind Malfoy. As he caught up, he lowered his voice, his whisper barely audible over the sound of Draco and Narcissa's footfalls. "I'll go stay with Hermione. But look, your parents know something about what's happening to her—or at least something about this silver-eyed business. You're the  _only_  one who can find out what they know. It could help her."

Draco simply nodded, feeling utterly useless as Potter backed away. He could only just make out the sound of the other young man's retreating steps over his own movements.

* * *

"What is it you want with me?" Hermione asked as Lucius led her through the Slytherin common room.

"At the moment? Nothing, really," he said, his tone strangely jovial. "However, you are quite the smart child; I imagine you comprehend rather well the need for experimenting with unknown things to better understand them."

They reached the cells and he tapped the door of the first with his wand. The cell opened, and he relinquished his grasp on her arm.

She realized dully how aware he must be that she was only cooperating because he had a wand and she didn't. He could easily incapacitate her—or worse—if she chose to fight back.

_Never again shall we forget._

The words whispered through her mind as though someone stood beside her, speaking them in her ear. Startled—and mildly grateful for the ability to feel shocked—she cast her gaze about the chamber.

Lucius not only saw her sudden change in demeanor, he backpedaled a single step to better observe her. She looked as though she was listening for something. Odd, they were the only ones on this entire floor. He could only imagine that her perception had something to do with those metallic eyes.

Noting that Lucius hadn't seemed to hear anything, she forced the strange, beckoning whisper aside. Again, she felt herself slipping. Felt the snap of cold air, felt the sharpness of her fear and dread wrap around her before they started drifting away.

"What do you mean? What sort of experiment?" she asked, fighting to hold onto her emotions as she stepped into the cell and spun on her heel to face him.

He smirked, cataloging her behavior from a moment ago and filing it away for later. "Well, I now have in my possession two individuals suffering from the same, unique, malady. Yet, despite the similar circumstances of your illness, you are each responding to your condition quite differently."

She stood a bit straighter as her eyebrows drew upward. " _Meaning_?"

"Fenrir is more of a wretched beast than he was before, and yet, you . . . ." His gaze narrowed as he closed the cell door and tapped the lock with his wand. "You somehow seem, well,  _not_  beastly. I can only imagine this means that you—as much as I  _dread_  making this observation about one such as yourself—are a more evolved creature."

Hermione frowned, those silver eyes rolling so hard the lids fluttered. She didn't know how much longer she could hold on, and she didn't need her captor witnessing what  _her illness_ , as he put it, actually did to her. She didn't want to think what that strange, doll-like state might mean for his need to experiment.

"Are you ever going to get to your point, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked through clenched teeth.

His eyebrows shot up at her tone. If not for the bizarre situation, he'd have never taken someone of her blood-status speaking to him in such a manner. Offering a tight-lipped little grin, he forced aside his inclination to use the Cruciatus curse on her.

"It is as though you've both become different creatures, entirely," he said, his voice so cold she winced. "I am curious to see, given your  _very_  different responses to ingesting unicorn blood, how you two will behave around one another as you are now."

Hermione felt the encroaching numbness recede for the briefest moment as she stared at him, her jaw going slack. It wasn't enough that he kept calling her creature—as though he thought of her as no longer human—but now, he wanted her to interact  _with_  Fenrir? Just so he could see what would happen? There was no way he could think she would agree to that willingly after her history with the werewolf.

"You . . . you . . . . I don't understand."

"Yes, you do." Lucius took a few steps backward, watching her, still. "Quite simply, Miss Granger, I am going to leave this chamber and when Fenrir wakes, I am going to let him come and find you."

That terrible fear coiled in the pit of her stomach. She gripped her hands around the bars and peered out at him. "No, no, you can't!"

Smirking, he actually found he had to hold in a chuckle. "I can do whatever I like."

"You don't understand," she said in a pleading whisper. "He is the one who did this to me! He  _forced_  the blood into my mouth!"

"Huh." Lucius gave a sideways nod. "Well, that is one mystery solved."

She tried, again, to reason with him, but her words fell upon deaf ears as he turned on his heel and retreated from the dungeon.

Left alone, she spun in a slow circle, taking in her surroundings. The blank, rough dark-grey walls offered no comfort . . . no imagined safety from the knowledge that she had nowhere to run, nothing to hide behind. Fenrir was  _going_  to awaken, he was going to  _find_ her.

As soon as she acknowledged that the terror was still edging around her brain—dulled though knew the sensation was—she felt the void closing around her. She felt her fear, felt her awareness of touch, begin to ebb from her.

Trying desperately to hold onto to her emotions once more, Hermione sank to her knees in her cell. She willed herself to recall Draco's protests, her eyes drifting closed as she let his voice ring in her ears.


	10. Death of the Lesser

**Chapter Ten**

Death of the Lesser

Harry watched from a corner of the Slytherin common room as Lucius walked away from the cells. Letting out a breath, he waited until the elder wizard disappeared up the stairs to the main floor. He desperately wanted to be in there to hear the conversation Hermione and Lucius had a moment ago, but knew it was wiser—and far less risky—to keep his distance. One stumble and he might find himself in a cell of his own, or dead. He wasn't certain Lucius Malfoy cared which, as long as he was out from under foot.

Harry shook his head at himself as he crossed the common room and made his way toward the cells. "Who are you  _kidding_ , Harry? He'd kill you in a heartbeat."

He stepped inside and paused, feeling a chill down his spine. There she was, caged—just as she'd called it—and kneeling. She looked so . . . small and broken, lost in the dark folds of that cloak as she was.

"Oh, God, Hermione," he said in a whisper as he lowered the hood of his Invisibility Cloak.

She turned, pinning him with those flawless silver eyes. His jaw dropped; even from meters away, he could see how her eyes had changed since he'd seen her last— _really_  seen her. The irises were so clear . . . perfect, like liquid silver.

_Like unicorn blood_ , he thought, swallowing hard.

Hermione rose to her feet and Harry thought for a moment that might actually be someone else standing there. The way she moved was so fluid . . . as though she was now possessed of effortless grace and poise. Slow, measured motions brought her to her proper height, yet her posture was different. Pin-straight, shoulders back; the cloak parted enough in the front that he could see her hands clasped neatly in front of her.

He realized, as he brought his gaze up to those eyes in his best friend's suddenly doll-like face . . . . Standing there like that, Hermione looked  _regal_.

"Hermione," he said, his words low and trembling as he ran to her. "Are you okay?"

Her lids swept down in a slow blink as she tilted her head to one side, as though unable to comprehend his panicked tone. "Of course I am, Harry."

He stumbled backward a step at the sound of her voice. It was Hermione's and yet . . . not. It sounded odd, hollow . . . alien. Like someone else was using her voice to respond. And yet beautiful, so beautiful it almost hurt to listen to her.

"God, Hermione, what's happening to you?" The moment he said it, things became clear. "That's why Malfoy wants you, isn't it? Because of whatever  _this_  is?"

Again, she did that slow blink, gliding forward a step to peer at him through the bars. "I am becoming what must be."

"What?" That . . . that didn't even make sense! Harry shot forward, latching one hand around the bars, and reaching with the other to cup her cheek with his palm. "Snap out of it!"

As his skin touched hers, she shuddered violently. For the space of a single heartbeat, he feared she'd fall, but she gripped his arm with both hands and clung to him, staying on her feet.

That strange tension flooded out of her and life returned to her features. "Oh, God, Harry! What's . . . ? I don't understand what's happening!"

"I don't know," he said, speaking in a low fervent whisper. "But whatever it is, I know the Malfoys know something. Draco's going try to find out what."

"You spoke to him?"

Harry nodded. "I told him I'd be here with you."

She sagged forward, leaning against the bars. Suddenly she felt exhausted; so drained she wondered vaguely how she was still standing. "Thank God for that. At least it'll stop him from trying to get himself thrown in a cell for a bit."

"What are you two doing here, anyway?"

Hermione spared a moment to laugh at herself. There was so much to say, and so little time. "We had to move, Fenrir found the forest manor. But I was too weak to go far, and we knew we couldn't just leave you behind—"

"So you risked yourselves to come rescue me?"

"Um . . . ." She pointedly cast her gaze about, looking at the walls, ceiling, and cell door, before returning her attention to Harry. "Yes."

He smiled. "Worst rescue  _ever_."

"Harry, listen, we can laugh later. Right now, Lucius Malfoy is mad. As in I think he's seriously lost his mind. He means to keep me locked down here, because he wants to see how Fenrir and I are different, I think."

"What!"

She nodded, looking around again, fearful that the werewolf could come barreling out of any unwatched corner. "He's . . . Fenrir fed from the unicorn. He must've been more wounded after your fight than we thought."

Dropping his gaze to the dungeon floor, Harry found he had to force a gulp down his throat before he could speak. "No, that was me. I—I did that to him, Hermione."

She felt like a blanket of ice had wrapped around her shoulders and she shivered, trying to desperately to cling to his arm, still. "Why?"

He shook his head, refusing to look up at her. "You had just collapsed. I know . . . ." He licked his lips and tried again. "I know you said you were awake the entire time, but I don't think you could have been. I think you  _were_ asleep for those first few moments, or you would have remembered overhearing me."

_Hope you enjoy your half-life_ , he heard the echo of his own, angry whisper in his head.

"Knowing he did that to you, I couldn't just leave it," he said, finally lifting his gaze to hers. "He had to suffer at least as much."

"Dammit, Harry," she murmured, dropping her forehead against where his fingers curled around the one of the bars. "You shouldn't have done that. You had cuts all over the place, what if some of it got into you?"

He pressed his face between the bars to drop a kiss against the top of her hair. "We'd both be on that side of this door, probably."

She gave a breathless laugh, but the sound stopped short. Her shoulders shook as she darted her gaze about.

"Hermione?" The instant change in her demeanor scared him. "Hermione, what is it?"

That sick fear churned and twisted in the pit of her stomach. "It's Fenrir," she said, her voice barely audible, even in the quiet of the dungeon. "H—he's awa . . . . He's awake. And he's co—"

A bellow tore the air and she gasped, as though the sound hurt.

"He's coming," she said.

"Hermione, how did you know that?"

She shook her head, panic filling her gaze. "I don't know. I think it's the blood, it connects us, or something. That's the only thing that makes sense. But you, Harry, you have to go. He  _can't_  find you here!"

Green eyes shot wide behind the wire rims of his glasses. Had that unicorn blood driven  _her_  mad? "No, Hermione. I won't leave you here like this!"

"Harry, please, you have to. If he finds you here, he'll kill you just to get to me. I can  _feel_ it." She reached through the bars to cup his face in her hands. "Please! I think he might smell you, but I'll distract him. You have to go. We can't make it through this if you don't!"

"Hermione—"

"I'll be fine, I promise. He doesn't want to kill  _me_."

Harry could hear it, now. He could hear heavy, stomping footfalls barreling through the Slytherin common room.

He hated it, but she was right. He could handle Fenrir, but what of the castle full of dark wizards and witches with a score to settle above their heads? He was no good to her dead. Nodding, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and then slipped away.

Hermione watched as Harry stepped back and threw the hood of his Cloak into place. Despair crept in instantly, even as she heard Fenrir's angry steps draw closer, and felt that terror batting at her.

Everything snapped into sharp relief around her. Her fear bit at her skin, the fabric of the cloak over her shoulders seemed made of lead, and the air was so cold she thought her skin might freeze.

And then it was all gone.

She glanced about the cell as she stood straighter. She recalled how she'd gotten here, yes. And she knew the beast would be here shortly. Her silver eyes rolled impatiently.

_He_  had forgotten. They all had.

_He_ would pay for thinking the ancient magics something with which he could toy.

He tore into the room, his bleary silver eyes meeting hers. She only stared back, her expression blank as a twisted grin curved his lips.

He ran at the cell, wrapping his hands around the bars and trying to pull the door off its hinges.

Her eyebrows drifted upward in the vaguest hint of surprise when the metal whined and groaned in protest. He was strong, but not as strong as he needed to be.

"Cease!"

Against his will, Fenrir's arms dropped to his sides. "What are you doing?"

"You will not have me," she said in a lethal whisper.

The werewolf flinched, as though her words hurt. "Oh, yes. I will. I will tear this cage apart and then—"

"And then nothing!" She stepped closer to the bars, her gaze fixed on his, the perfect, unblemished silver giving off a faint light. "You betrayed ancient law. You abused this form. You deserve the half-life cast upon you!"

Fenrir felt as though a ton of bricks had piled upon his shoulders for each word that fell from her lips. He fought to stay on his feet, but as she held his gaze, the weight pressing down on him grew.

Growling and spitting as he fought against it, the beast sank to his knees.

"Never again shall we forget. You did not only forget, you mocked." She lifted her chin in defiance, but kept her eyes on his, still. Her voice was hollow and clear, a sound like shattering crystal as she said, "For that what you truly deserve is death."

"I couldn't agree more, my dear," Lucius Malfoy's voice called into the room a moment before the new Dark Lord stepped inside. He aimed his wand at Fenrir, immobilized as the creature was by the silver-girl's words. "Avada Kedavra."

Even as the Killing Curse struck, even as it ripped what was left of his life from him, Fenrir fought. He felt on his side, hitting the floor with a bone-jarring thud. A snarl froze on his face as the last bit of life ebbed from his dull, metallic eyes.

Lucius expected . . . something from Miss Granger. Some protest, a look of fear, or dread.  _Something_. Yet the girl only stood there, looking upon the werewolf's corpse as though the very purpose of its existence eluded her.

After a moment, she lifted that eerie gaze to meet Lucius' eyes. "You needn't have done that. He was dying, already."

His eyebrows drawing upward, he stepped over Fenrir and watched her through the bars for a long, silent moment. "Was he dying because of what you were doing to him just now?"

She shook her head. This one needed to learn his place, as well, but it was not time. She didn't have the strength for that, yet.

"So . . . because of the blood, then?"

The girl nodded.

Lucius looked from her, to the fallen beast at his feet, and back. "But not you?"

"But not me."

He hid a grin. Finally, they were getting somewhere. "Will you tell me," he said, making his tone light and careless, "why the blood isn't hurting you?"

"Not yet, I think."

He frowned thoughtfully. He had been  _so_  correct in this matter that he was actually a little astounded at how well things had played out. Fenrir, the useless one, was dead, and Miss Granger, the one who was becoming something more—this silver being—stood before him. And she clearly  _was_ more evolved.

Her strange, blank expression was unnerving, but he couldn't worry about that, now. With how she'd just handled Fenrir, he knew it best if he maintained the guise of the one in power, but understood it unwise to give the girl any reason to lash at _him_  that way.

"Tell me, Miss Granger . . . ."

She arched a brow.

"Was it your words that forced him to his knees?"

Those silver eyes narrowed as she held his gaze. "It was my voice."

So much she had to tell him, but he would not press his luck, just now. He tapped the door's lock with his wand, and it sprang open. "Now, if you behave yourself, I am willing to escort you to more comfortable accommodations."

The girl looked him over as she stepped from the cell before asking, "So then I am still a prisoner?"

Lucius grinned winningly as he put a loose arm around her shoulders to guide her through the dungeons. "Oh, my dear girl. Of course, you are."


	11. The Forgotten One

**Chapter Eleven**

The Forgotten One

Thayer had stayed by the doors, listening and waiting. After Fenrir had been struck with the Stunning spell, Thayer'd backpedaled and hid, out of sight, but not out of earshot. When everything had quieted, and he overheard that Lord Malfoy was going to escort the Mudblood girl to the dungeon, he poked his head into the castle's foyer and saw a curious site, indeed.

Harry Potter's disembodied head, only for the briefest second. So fast he thought he might've imagined it. But then, by now everyone knew the Deathly Hallows were real, and that the Potter boy possessed the Cloak. Where the other two were now was anyone's guess. He supposed it hardly mattered just now, anyway.

No, that split-second glimpse of Potter's face wasn't the curious thing, it was the way Draco Malfoy had glanced back. He'd seen that quick flash, and he'd not looked surprised.

In fact, he'd looked  _relieved_.

But then he simply trailed along behind his mother and they disappeared into one of the upper floors. Thayer was alone, with the unconscious werewolf—he'd seen the uncertain glances the others had cast from toward the doors as they lingered in the courtyard. They all seemed in mutual, unspoken agreement to avoid  _anything_  to do with the more-volatile-than-usual beast-man.

He shook his head as he stepped toward Fenrir, lowering to sit on the balls of his feet beside him. "Well, this is a fine mess, Fen," he whispered, almost as uncertain as the others as he considered his options.

He knew he'd seen Potter, but not where the Boy Who Lived had disappeared to. Who would he tell? Lord Malfoy was down in the dungeon dealing with the girl—who really  _did_ have silver eyes, only not like Fen's, somehow. Lady Malfoy was upstairs with Draco, who he'd once thought such a coward, but after seeing him layout Fenrir without flinching, he doubted the only-slightly-younger man would think twice about striking at him, too, if he tried to tell her about seeing Potter in the castle.

But then, he pondered as he returned his attention to the still werewolf, perhaps it was time he be more calculating. Maybe it was best he keep the knowledge to himself, for now. To wait and see how things played out. Certainly, he excelled at the Dark Arts, himself, and he'd held the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters in high esteem. Indeed, he loved the world view they'd espoused.

But he loved being permitted to keep breathing, more. Besides, no one else had seen that  _he'd_  seen, so who would know?

He sighed and looked over his shoulder. Fenrir's burly form was right in front of the doorway. Shaking his head, he slipped his hands around the werewolf's wrists and began dragging him away from the entrance.

Lord Malfoy returned from the dungeons, then. His grey eyes met Thayer's as the younger wizard continued pulling at the unconscious werewolf. Lord Malfoy went to the staircase, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned a hip against the stone banister.

"Ah, Thayer, wasn't it?" Lucius asked, his tone remarkably conversational, under the circumstances.

"Y . . . yes, My Lord," Thayer said through clenched teeth as he managed to pull Fenrir a few centimeters at a time.

"I am pleased to see the hunting party was successful, well . . . after a fashion, I suppose."

"Not entirely, My Lord." Thayer halted a moment, catching his breath. "I regret to inform you that the man you sent with us is dead."

Lucius' brows drew together. "Goyle? How?"

Shrugging, Thayer spoke as he went back to tugging at Fenrir. "He drew his wand on me, Fenrir jumped in and ripped his throat out. That red around his mouth is . . . well, Goyle."

Well, he wasn't happy to see his old friend gone, but he supposed there was nothing to be done for it, now. "Tell me, Thayer, what did you do to provoke him into drawing his wand?"

"My Lord," the younger wizard began as he dropped Fenrir's arms and stood. "I honestly didn't  _do_  anything. It's just . . . he wasn't exactly the sharpest tack and I . . .  _may_  have mentioned it. And then elaborated."

Lucius found that he actually had to bite his lip to hold in a chuckle. Instead, he inhaled deeply and breathed out through his nose before offering a small grin. "I knew I liked you."

Thayer arched a brow—hadn't that man been Lord Malfoy's friend? But he didn't want to get himself into trouble with the elder wizard, so he simply nodded. "Thank you, My Lord."

A feral scream tore out of Fenrir then, giving Thayer a start. Lucius' brows to draw upward as he took a step back, up onto the stone steps to be certain he was far removed from the beast-man's path.

Thayer crept as close to Fenrir as he dared, trying to calm him. "Fen? You okay?"

The only answer he received was a deep, angry snarl. Briefly, he thought he heard Fenrir sniffing at the air from where he lay.

"Fen?" He moved a hair's breadth closer. "Fen, mate? You o—?"

Fenrir jumped to his feet so fast, his arms flailing and grasping wildly at the air, that his frantic movements knocked Thayer backward. The dark-haired wizard hit the wall behind him and crumbled to his knees, clutching his midsection where Fenrir had struck him.

By the time Thayer was able to raise his head, to see what was happening, Fenrir was already tearing his way toward the Slytherin dungeons.

Thayer pushed up to stand, but stumbled back a bit, falling against the wall, once more. The motion jarred him and he winced. Damn, he hoped Fenrir hadn't broken one of his ribs just now. He stopped, closing his eyes and shaking his head, trying to get his bearings through that flash of pain.

As he opened his eyes, he saw Lord Malfoy holding up a hand as he moved down from the steps. "No, no. Perhaps you should stay here. I have a feeling things in the dungeon are not going to be pretty."

Nodding, Thayer sagged back against the wall, breathing slow and shallow. He could only watch as Lord Malfoy drew his wand and started for the dungeons, himself.

Was that a measure of self-defense, or . . . ? Fenrir wasn't in his right mind, if Lord Malfoy had planned to subdue him again, why hadn't he done it when Fenrir had still been on this floor with them?

No, there was something about the Lord's slow, measured footfalls and near-bored expression that utterly unnerved Thayer.

Whatever he might've said in protest died on his lips as he wondered with a sick twist of fear in the pit of his stomach if their new Dark Lord planned to kill them all—or at least didn't care to try to avoid killing them—just to get what he wanted. Whatever that was.

He had no idea how long he waited; how long he stood there, holding his throbbing midsection and trying not to breathe too deeply. He considered counting, but thought perhaps that might only make the time pass slower, still.

There was a ripple of movement somewhere nearby, but he couldn't quite catch it. Something fleeting, there and gone as it rushed past him. He shook his head and chose to ignore it. Probably only one of the many Hogwarts ghosts who'd been too afraid of the castle's current occupants to show themselves, until now.

Then he saw them returning to the main floor. For a second, he didn't quite understand what he was seeing. The girl Lord Malfoy had just put in a dungeon cell, he was now escorting back. Though, the way the elder wizard's arm lingered, hovering just near the girl's cloaked shoulders, but not quite touching her and his wand clutched in his other hand and aimed at her caused Thayer to wonder if she didn't frighten the Lord, somehow.

She turned toward the staircase, but stopped short as she saw him. The way she carried herself as she walked toward him—her footsteps soundless and gliding—made him wonder if she really was the _same_  girl he'd seen Fenrir dragging around a few days ago.

He couldn't hold her gaze, dropping his attention to the floor. He'd seen Fenrir tugging her along like a doll, hurting her . . . . And he'd laughed. Still intoxicated by the victory of the Dark, he'd honestly thought nothing of the incident.

Maybe it was his current discomfort that was causing him to rethink it, but now the recollection of watching Fenrir torment her soured his stomach.

When he finally lifted his gaze again, he jumped a little to find her directly in front of him. The jostling motion brought a pained hiss out of him.

Her head barely reached his shoulder and she kept those perfect silver eyes locked on his as she crooked a finger, beckoning him. His eyebrows shot up and he exchanged a glance with Lord Malfoy—who answered younger wizard's questioning look with a bewildered shrug—before leaning toward her.

Only when his ear was right by her lips, did she speak. Her crystalline voice so low, he was surprised he heard her, at all.

His brow furrowed and he pulled back to look at her.

Lucius' gaze darted from Thayer, to the girl, and back. "What did she say to you?"

Thayer tipped his head to one side, watching the girl's blank expression curiously. "I'm sorry, My Lord, but I really have no idea."

Lord Malfoy sighed and shook his head as he returned to guiding her to the main staircase. "Come along, then, Miss Granger. I suppose I can just let you have Gryffindor tower all to yourself, it is hardly as though we've had need of it. I think that would make a splendid alternative to the dungeon."

Thayer didn't move as they disappeared into one of the branched landings. Frowning, he stood straight, before shifting and turning, testing his body.

The pain was gone.

Blinking rapidly several times as he tried to process what just happened, he stepped away from the wall and turned to face the upper level where he last saw her. She'd  _actually_  healed him, somehow. With only words . . . . His breath caught in his throat, and again he thought he might be sick, but this time it was for a different reason.

Where had she gotten such power?

He couldn't stop to think of his fear just now. She'd healed him, he could move freely, that was what mattered. Forcing a gulp down his throat, he pivoted on a heel to face the stairs that led down to the Slytherin dungeon. Three people had gone down there, but only two had come back.

Shaking his head, he drew his wand as a precaution and started for the lower level. As he descended the steps, he considered that perhaps Fenrir was simply in one of the cells. That made sense—a penalty box until he calmed down. After all, he'd wanted that girl, and Lord Malfoy clearly wasn't going to let that happen.

He halted for a moment as he crossed the Slytherin common room. Fenrir had wanted that girl . . . and look what had happened. He couldn't help thinking that maybe if Fenrir had only left her alone, he'd be all right now. His usual, brusque, mildly-feral self rather than this . . .  _creature_  he'd become these last few days.

Rounding the entrance into the cells, he stopped short. Tipping his head to one side, he only stared at the lifeless form on the floor for a few strained heartbeats. Long enough to see that he wasn't breathing.

"Oh, Fen . . . ." Thayer tsk'ed and shook his head. If only it hadn't been for that girl.

His shoulders slumped and he turned to look upward. Suddenly the words she'd whispered in his ear made sense.

_This day you have known regret and so you save your own life. Your pain has cleared your head, but I shall take it from you, all the same._

She'd helped him and . . . could she really mean that how it had sounded? She was sparing him because he realized he'd been wrong in his behavior? He didn't bother to question how she could have known. And sparing him from what? Her, or Lord Malfoy?

Swallowing hard, he looked down at Fenrir one last time. "Sorry, mate. Whichever it is, I'm not sticking around to find out."

Thayer hurried out of the dungeons and through the main floor. He didn't pay any mind to the other witches and wizards as he walked out the doors and continued on, cutting across the courtyard in a quick stride.

First Goyle, now Fenrir . . . . He had no intention of finding out who of the new Dark Lord's ranks was to die next.


	12. Defining Decisions

**Chapter Twelve**

Defining Decisions

"What is it you plan on doing with her?"

Narcissa's delicate brows shot up as she turned to face her son. He sat across the headmaster's office from her, his elbows propped on the armrests of his chair. Lucius had popped in oh, so very briefly, to inform them he was moving the girl to Gryffindor tower, and then he was gone, again.

Since that moment, Draco stared mutely into his hands. His prolonged stillness made her think perhaps she's imagined his toneless whisper, just now.

But, after a few more seconds of silence, he lifted his head to meet her gaze unflinchingly.

She swallowed hard. There was something so angry about him. He couldn't really be this upset with them over that girl, could he?

" _I_  have very little part in whatever is going on."

Grey eyes rolling, Draco hissed out an angry breath. "You really expect me to believe that?"

The wounded expression that flickered across his mother's features tore at his heart, but he pushed that aside. If he let her lull him, he might never have room to ask anything of importance.

"I expect you to believe your mother, Draco," she said, her voice low.

"I believe you have little  _actual_  part in whatever Father is doing, certainly," he agreed, his tone mildly scolding, now. Another flicker across her face at that—she never expected  _him_  to speak to her in such a manner. "But I also believe you at least know what is happening. Why Father is suddenly treating Granger like some bejeweled trophy."

Narcissa sighed, her eyes drifting closed as she rested an elbow upon the headmaster's desk beside her chair. She rubbed her fingertips in soothing circles against her forehead. The  _soothing_  part was a failed notion, she realized, because it did nothing to ease the tension squeezing her skull like an invisible vice.

Of course, he was correct, and in that regard, she knew it would be an odd thing if he  _weren't_  upset with her.

Finally, she spoke. Her eyes still closed, and her head shaking, she explained about Lucius' more-mad-seeming-by-the-moment ancient prophecy. Well, she kept the  _mad-seeming_ comment to herself, of course.

Draco's full attention was fixed on her by the time she finished. He'd turned his seat to face her and sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stared at her.

After another long moment of quiet wound through the room, he said, "I've . . . I've never heard of—"

"No one has; no one we know of, in any regard." She smirked and nodded, her gaze on the floor. "Except, of course, for your father."

He looked out the window as he tried to sort through this new information. The sky outside had darkened easily an hour ago. It was difficult to grasp how much had happened in a single day, but now that he realized how late it was, the time caught up with him and he felt weariness wrack through him.

Shuddering, he held in a yawn.

Narcissa's expression shifted to one of sympathy. "Draco, you're exhausted. I'm certain these last few days on your own couldn't have been—"

"I wasn't on my own, Mother," Draco said through clenched teeth. No, he wasn't. He was helping Potter and protecting Granger. But then . . . he understood with a strange, cold certainty twisting in the pit of his stomach, she and Father probably would still consider that as him being on his own, because they were not his  _equals_.

It sickened him a little to think on how much that used to matter to him, too. Especially now, after he'd realized that it was never that they weren't his equal, but that  _he_  wasn't theirs.

"Well," she said, standing and fluttering her hands about. "Regardless, you are exhausted. Come, I'll take you to the quarters where your father and I—"

He shot to his feet so fast her words died on her lips.

"Mother will you stop treating me like a child," he said, his tone thundering.

Her gaze flickering over him from head-to-toe, as though she didn't recognize him, she curled her hands into fists at her sides. First Lucius losing his mind with this prophecy business, and now her only son was snapping at her? What was the world coming to?

Schooling her features, she managed in a calm, steady tone, "I am not trying to suggest that you are. Simply . . . too much is going on as of late over which I have precious little control. I have been worried sick about you, only to have you return to us. And yet here you, rewarding my relief by speaking to me in such a tone!" She shook her head, going on in an angry, rapid whisper. "You father only shares with me half of what is going through his head, and I even find myself worrying for what will become of that girl!"

Narcissa's face fell after that last word left her lips. Draco understood her shocked expression, instantly. She hadn't meant to say that last part . . . not aloud. Not where anyone might overhear her.

Shoulders drooping, he stepped up to his mother, holding her gaze. "I need to see her. Please."

She recalled how he'd been in the Main Hall. The way he'd been so protectively curled around that girl. "Why?" Her eyes narrowed. "What _is_ the blood doing to her?"

Draco forced a gulp down his throat as he shrugged. "I don't really know. All I know is that it gets worse when I'm not around her."

Narcissa felt a snap of cold creep along her spine. She couldn't think on why anything about the blood in her system should be specific to Draco, only that whatever it was doing to her was  _exactly_ what Lucius wanted.

"Well," she said, nodding as she lifted her chin defiantly. "Then let's go see if your father will allow you to visit with her."

As they exited the office, she surprised Draco by tacking on in a barely audible whisper, "But do  _not_ tell him what you have just told me."

* * *

Night had fallen a while ago, by the time Harry caught up to Thayer. The dark-haired wizard had alternately run, and jogged, seeming as though he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the castle grounds as he could manage, before he fell to his hands and knees. He caught his breath in huge, gulping gasps.

"You certainly can run!"

Thayer jumped in place at the unexpected voice, tumbling onto his side and then rolling to sit up and look about. "Wha—?"

While the man he'd chased made no scramble to draw his wand, Harry wasn't taking any chances. He drew his own wand, holding it at the ready as he pushed back the hood of his Cloak with his free hand.

"Bloody hell, it's just you," Thayer said, pressing a palm to his chest as he shifted to sit up a bit more.

Harry's face pinched as he nodded at the other wizard. "You know who I am, then?"

Dark brow furrowing, Thayer's expression soured. "What are you, a bleedin' idiot? Everyone knows who  _you_  are!"

Uttering an impatient sound in the back of his throat, Harry simply rolled his eyes. He really should've expected an answer like that.

"Why'd you follow me?"

"I saw that whole scene back at the castle. I  _need_  to know what Hermione said to you." With the way she was carrying herself and that expressionless face, Harry knew she'd succumbed to whatever the blood brought about in her, at that moment.

He only hoped that like the other times, she could come back to her senses, again.

"If you saw that, then you know what I told Lord Malfoy. I have  _no_  idea what she said."

Frowning, Harry said, "Then why did you run the moment they were gone?"

With a sigh, Thayer hung his head. She'd spared him, so maybe he was supposed to help her? But he wasn't certain how just repeating her words might do that. "Hermione, that's . . . that's that girl, right?"

Harry nodded.

Thayer glanced around. He supposed they were far enough from the castle, now. Nodding, he stood and brushed himself off. "Fine. I'll tell you, but only if you  _promise_  you won't make me go back there."

There was no mistaking the genuine terror flickering through the other wizard's dark-eyed gaze.

Again, Harry nodded. He lowered his wand, but still held it tight, just in case. "I promise I won't make you go back there."

Thayer nodded in return. Drawing a breath, he described everything from the moment Fenrir had busted down the castle doors, to him—as soon as he'd cleared the eye line of the other dark wizards and witches on the castle grounds—bolting away, as though his life depended on it.

And, from his words and his tone, Harry was pretty certain the wizard thought it just might.

* * *

Lucius' cold gaze darted from his wife, to his son, and back as he stood at the open portrait entrance to Gryffindor tower. He was almost tempted to say no and turn the boy away.

Almost. Narcissa wore a severe expression that he hadn't seen in quite a long while. He wanted to monitor the girl, wanted to know the moment whatever metamorphosis she was undergoing was complete.

But exhaustion clawed at him. He could feel the circles under his eyes. His wife and son looked equally weary. These few days since the War's end indeed felt like the longest he'd ever experienced.

He'd settle for warding the tower to keep her captive there—well, apparently, her and Draco—until morning. He almost found it laughable that under any other circumstances, Narcissa would be the _last_  person advocating for their son to be alone with a young lady for the night.

"Fine." Lucius nodded. "Go on, but if you try to help her escape, there will be _nowhere_  that I won't find you."

Draco arched a brow, deciding to keep to himself that he had hidden for that forest manor for three days, and Lucius was  _not_  the one who found him. He simply offered an obedient nod and stepped through the entryway.

The portrait swung closed behind him, followed by the muttering of his father on the other side, casting a ward, causing him to spin around. Those sounds both felt so incredibly final.

Sighing, he shook his head and turned to face the common room. There she stood, in the center. The hood of the dark cloak was down around her shoulders, and her face was blank and once more so terrifyingly doll-like as she stared back at him.

She only held his gaze as he drew near, her brow furrowing as though she simply could not make sense of the worry in his expression. "Good evening, Draco," she said in that beautiful, but sharp crystal voice.

Shaking his head, he reached out, slipping a hand around the back of her neck and pulling her to him. She shuddered at the contact, trembling in his arms as he kissed her.

He pulled back only enough to look at her as the life flooded back into her metallic eyes.

She gasped, fighting for her breath, suddenly, as though she'd been holding the air in her lungs for too long. "Draco, oh, God," she said in a shivering whisper before she shot forward, hugging him tightly.

He slid his arms around her waist beneath the folds of the cloak, once more shaking his head. "You scared me!"

"Not as much as I scared me!"

She was laughing as she'd said that, but still the statement worried him. Once more retreating enough to meet her gaze, he asked, "What do you mean?"

Swallowing hard, she slid her hands forward, keeping her bare palms pressed to the back of his neck as she answered. "Before it was like I was having some sort of fit, or episode, whenever the blood took over, but now . . . . Now I can remember. At least this last one."

Draco bit his lip as he noticed the traces of worry that colored her features. There was so much they needed to discuss. And where the bloody hell was Potter?

But then she stumbled a bit, even as he held her. "Whoa, whoa," he said, tightening his hold on her. "What was that?"

She gave another laugh, this one light and airy as she said, "Nothing, really. I'm just so tired, now. I don't think exhaustion can occur to me when I'm . . . well, you know."

He nodded, relinquishing his hold to take her hand in one of his, and slip his other arm around her shoulders. "Maybe you should lie down. Or at least sit."

Hermione nodded as he guided her toward the sofa. She stumbled again, slipping from his grasp. Before he could catch her, she bumped the end table beside the sofa, knocking a few decorative porcelain knickknacks to crash against the floor beneath her.

"Granger!" He immediately hoisted her to her feet and helped her to sit on the plush cushions. "I'm  _so_  sorry. Tell me you're okay."

Sparing a moment to take an internal inventory, she nodded. Pulling on of her hands into her lap, she examined a gash along the side of her palm. "I think it's just this. I'll be okay. It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was. I know how weak you've been feeling. Maybe I should have carried you or—"

"No, okay. I've had enough of that recently, thanks very much," she said as she raised her hand to look more closely at the wound. "Oh, my God. Draco . . . look."

He was in the midst of scrambling for something with which to wrap the cut when she called for his attention. Frowning, he looked up. The blood seeping from the gash was strangely beautiful. Crimson, laced through with ribbons of silver.

"Granger," he said, surprised his voice didn't stick in his throat. "You've . . . you've actually  _got_  unicorn blood in your veins, now."

She was at a loss for how to respond to this discovery. But Draco's mind was working furiously. Father would see the wound in the morning, he'd know she was, indeed, still changing. They'd separate him from her, again, and there was no way he could protect her, then.

That was when it struck him. Possibly the stupidest idea he'd ever had, but if it killed him, at least he'd die an honorable death, which was not something he'd  _ever_  thought he'd have the privilege to say, before.

"Unicorn blood," he said again, nodding.

Before Hermione could react, Draco pulled her hand to his mouth and closed his lips around the wound. "Draco, no!" She pulled at her arm, but he was stronger than her, despite holding her gently, and her struggle proved useless.

She realized distantly that this was a very odd time for it, but the pulling of his mouth on the cut, the feel of the tip of his tongue dancing over the torn skin, sent sweet, warm tingles shooting through her body. Her eyes drifted shut and she had to remind herself to breathe.

After a few moments, he pulled back, inhaling sharply as he met her gaze. But already his eyelids were drooping.

Hermione knew what was coming, after her own post-blood-ingestion collapse. Pouting, she felt her eyes well up as she used her hands on his to tug him up to sit beside her on the sofa.

Suddenly, he was too drained and weary to fight as she shifted and guided him to rest his head on her lap.

"Draco, you idiot," she whispered, sniffling. "Why did you do that?"

He shrugged against her thigh, speaking as he let his eyes drift closed. "Now, whatever Father is planning for you, he'll have to do to me, to."

Hermione wanted to stay awake and yell at him more, but her head was tipping back against the sofa. Her lids lowered as she said, "You certainly picked a hell of a time to start being so brave."

He uttered a quiet laugh. "Just remember  _this_  if we both survive."


	13. A Terrible Understanding

**Chapter Thirteen**

A Terrible Understanding

Narcissa paced on quiet footsteps, an arm folded beneath her breasts as she pressed a hand to her mouth. It was decidedly unladylike, but she couldn't stop herself from chewing furiously on the nail of one finger as her gaze bounced about the room, before landing upon Lucius, over and over.

She knew the wee hours of the morning were upon them, yet she'd not been able to rest. Her husband, by sharp contrast, fell asleep nearly as soon as his head had hit the pillow.  _Apparently, plotting to overtake the Wizarding world via forgotten ancient prophecy is_ quite  _the draining endeavor_ , she thought with an arched brow, the tone of her inner voice facetious.

Still she puzzled over what Draco had told her—about Miss Granger's condition worsening whenever he was apart from her. Certainly, he could have been lying . . . it  _sounded_  like it could be a lie . . . . The Slytherin witch shook her head. But no. There was a strange feeling twisting in her gut that told her the young man was being wholly honest with her.

That sensation, however, did nothing to ease the tension holding her spine pin-straight, just now. She couldn't help but wonder what such a thing meant for Draco.

Her gaze landed on her husband's sleeping form, once more. Narcissa hated to admit it—even to herself—but she feared what would happen if he realized she was keeping something about the girl's unique condition from him.

This prophecy nonsense was driving him to lunacy.

She swallowed hard, shaking her head as her lids swept downward. She would never admitted it, but she knew . . . .

She was starting to fear  _him_.

* * *

By the time Harry returned to the castle grounds, the fires around which the dark witches and wizards were reveling had been extinguished, and the courtyard was vacant. Everything was still . . . painfully silent. Even the sounds he used to hear from the Forbidden Forest while attending school were gone.

Approaching the castle like this felt . . . . He shook his head, lifting his hands to ensure the hood of his Cloak was firmly in place.

This felt like walking through a cemetery.

He pressed on, ignoring the uncomfortable twisting in the pit of his stomach and the sensation of icy fingertips trailing up his spine—as though he was trespassing. Him, trespassing at Hogwarts? What an absurd notion! And yet, there it was.

As he moved through the splintered main doors, he tried to break down the feeling. Something,  _anything,_ to distract himself from this awful chill winding around him. Thayer had told him the last time he'd seen Lucius Malfoy, the new Dark Lord had mentioned escorting Hermione to Gryffindor tower, and so he made a beeline for the main staircase.

_This castle is no longer my home_ , he realized dully as he started up the steps. There was no other way to state that which would lessen the impact of those words. It was the simple truth, no matter how much it stung.

This place might as well be entirely abandoned for all the warmth and heart it held, now.

He forced any further cognitive thoughts from his head as he climbed toward the tower. Instead, he focused on his footfalls, counting them as he went; focusing on keeping them steady and soft as he could manage as he moved. Every centimeter of the place felt the same—cold and utterly lifeless—but that only made him more acutely aware of the faint sound his steps made against the stone staircase.

By the time he reached the portrait-entrance, he had forgotten about counting, altogether.

Glancing about, he pulled down the hood of the Cloak. The Fat Lady had fled her portrait, making him wonder if perhaps the castle falling to Lucius' ownership, by default, was what granted him access to the tower.

Frowning, he crept closer to the painting. He could see the faint glimmer hovering in the air. Damn. Sighing, he once more put the hood up and sat, settling back against a corner wall facing the tower's currently blocked entrance.

He hated it, but there was nothing he could do now except wait for Lucius to come dispel his ward in the morning. He only hoped Hermione would be alright until then.

Though he never thought he'd see the day, there he was, hoping that somehow—at the very least—Draco might be in there, with her.

* * *

Draco blinked his eyes open, and immediately shut them, again. What he'd just seen couldn't be real. He recalled clearly pillowing his head on Granger's lap in the Gryffindor common room as he'd drifted to sleep, yet . . . .

He risked opening his eyes again, and looked around the clearing in which he was standing. Granger stood beside him, her silver gaze on something in front of them.

"There's been a voice in my head," she whispered, that achingly pretty crystalline tone tumbling from her lips. "Since that night. I didn't remember until now. But . . . every time I was left alone, it crept in."

He felt a chill, uncertain if it was their new, unexpected environment, or the sound of her voice, and he turned his head to follow her gaze. Before them, a group of dirty people in tattered clothes gathered around a fire.

Squinting, he leaned in a little, inspecting their clothing more closely. No, those weren't tattered clothes at all, but rough-cut leathers.

She went on before he could make sense of this misplaced sight of primitive people huddled in the dark of night around the flames.

"Never again shall we forget. I kept scrambling to hear it again, to understand what it meant . . . ." Tears gathered in her beautiful metallic eyes as she forced a gulp down her throat. "And now, I know."

Draco's brow furrowed, and he looked from her, to the fire, and back. "I remember you saying that."

She smiled sadly, though she continued to watch the people at the fire. "I did?"

He nodded. "This morning," he said, strangely aware in that instant that his voice didn't sound the same as what he was used to hearing it. Well, it did, but there was something on the edge that made it sharper, and clearer.  _Like hers_.

Had it worked? Had taking her blood made him like her? Or was this some bizarre dream, and all he'd managed for his efforts was to make himself ill and he was hallucinating all this as a result?

Shaking his head, he pushed those questions aside. This felt _too_  strangely real to think it was a dream, yet at the same time, there was no other way to explain how they'd gotten to this place.

"After we Apparated from the Forest manor into that cave. You collapsed on me, you remember?"

Her eyebrows shot up and she offered a quick, soft giggle. "Not very fondly, but yes."

Draco nodded. "Just before you woke, you started whispering. I leaned in to hear what you were saying and . . . . Those were the words.  _Never again shall we forget_."

Finally, she turned to look at him. "If I said that," she said, drifting forward to slip her arms around his neck, "then  _you_  were meant to hear it."

She stood on her toes to press her mouth to his. He couldn't help a smile, even amid this strangeness, as he lowered his head to meet her kiss.

After only a moment of her lips brushing along his, she pulled back, looking up at him. "I'm glad for that. I know now, I can't do this alone."

His face pinched in a thoughtful expression as he weighed her words. "You weren't alone. You've got Potter and me."

She graced him with that sad smile, again. "True, you two were  _with_ me. But I was still alone, because I was the only one like  _me_."

The blood, he thought, scrambling to make sense of what she was saying. Everything oddly . . .  _fit_ , now. Though, he honestly wasn't certain if it was simply that any of it actually made sense, or if the situation he'd put himself in allowed him to understand from her side better.

"You need someone like you, don't you? For . . . whatever this is. That's why you were able to sense Fenrir, isn't it?"

"Yes." She shook her head, her wild hair flying about. "But he was not right for this. He couldn't become what must be."

"Okay," Draco said, laughing, relieved that he felt he was starting to comprehend this mess. "So, what is  _this_ , exactly? What is happening to us?"

A commotion broke out from the group around the fire, and Draco started. Turning to face them, he swept a protective arm out in front of Granger.

He could see another group drawing close in the distance.

She tilted her head to lean her chin against the side of his shoulder, peering around him. Slipping her arms around his waist from behind, she linked her hands.

"Just watch. You're going to see and then . . . ."

He didn't like the way her words trailed off. He echoed her as he watched what he now realized had been a hunting party approach the fire. "And then?"

"Then understanding will wash over you, and . . . ." Hermione bit her lip, shaking her head with a trembling breath. "I'm so sorry, Draco, but it's going to hurt. _Just_  like it did for me."

His eyes flashed wider as he glanced from her to the group. " _What_?"

He could tell from her voice that she was frowning as she said, "When I was alone in that cell. Mere moments had passed, but it was an eternity for me. And what's to come after probably won't be pleasant for you, either."

The hunting party finally reached the fire, two men tossing down their prize. Draco swallowed a horrified gasp as he saw the slain unicorn.

"They're going to eat a— Oh, my God, _no_!" He shot forward. "We can't let them—!"

Hermione quickly stepped around him, blocking his path. She pressed herself to him, once more wrapping her arms around him.

"Granger! Wha?" He didn't get why she, of all people, would let this happen.

" _Nothing_  you do will affect this moment in time," she said in a rushed tumble of words. "I know,  _I_  tried, too. I ran right through them. Like a ghost."

"I don't understand." He watched, flinching in revulsion as those people gathered around the fallen creature. Blades flashed as they began slicing into the sleek, white body.

"We're not  _really_  here," she whispered, and he glanced down to see she had shut her eyes. "The blood is showing you something that occurred a  _very_  long time ago. . . . Before even the time of wizards."

Nodding, he steeled his nerves and waited, though he knew now what was coming. Draco wished he had the luxury of turning his attention away, but from what Granger said, this was for  _him_. She's already gone through this . . . . He imagined the only reason she was here with him now was because she's already experienced this.

He watched, sickened, as they skinned the animal. As they cut into it and roasted its meat over the fire, as he imagined they would with any other kill. Dear Merlin, they had _no_  idea what they were doing!

Draco felt his eyes fill as he continued mutely observing their feast. Forcing a gulp, he tried to ignore the nausea churning in the pit of his stomach.

Then it happened. The warm, unbidden tears spilled, seeming to burn his cheeks as the people before them tore the meat clean from the bones with their teeth.

More burning . . . . Fire twisted in his gut and seeped, spiraling outward. The searing sensation trickled down his legs and crept into his arms.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he sagged in her arms. Draco stumbled forward, falling to his knees, and she moved with him, clinging to his side through every moment.

"Why are you here?" he asked in a shivering whisper, it seemed irrational, but he couldn't help thinking that somehow his pain was affecting her, too.

"Because there was no one here to hold me when I went through this," she answered, leaning to nuzzle her face against the side of his burning neck.

And then it happened.

Flashes of images through his mind. Quick, but  _indelible_  . . . . Ages upon ages, the passing of knowledge, the taming of power . . . . And, somewhere through the passage of time—so far no one remembered—understanding and respect gave way to misinformation and  _willing_  forgetfulness.

He screamed out, the burning felt like lava coursing through is veins as— _just_  as she said—understanding washed over him. He knew the truth . . . he had  _seen_  how all things as they were now had come to be.

* * *

The sound of Draco's scream ripped Harry from slumber and he jumped to his feet,wand at the ready.

* * *

Narcissa started at her son's pained shriek tearing through the silent castle walls. Lucius bolted up at the sound, scrambling for his wand as he climbed out of bed. His wife had already darted from the room and was hurrying down the corridor toward Gryffindor tower by the time he caught up to her.

If they'd miscalculated and that girl had done something to his son—prophecy or no—he would  _end_  her.

* * *

Then, all at once, the pain stopped.

Hermione's frame slumped against him, relaxing instantly.

Catching his breath, he slipped his hands up to cup her damp cheeks. She opened those silver eyes of hers to look at him.

She smiled, blinking a few times. "I'm not the only one, anymore," she said, holding his gaze.

She knew what he knew . . . how could she be so light-hearted right now, he wondered.

"Granger," he whispered, "I'm so . . . I'm  _so_  sorry. We were wrong. We—we were  _always_ wrong. You—" She pressed her fingers to his lips, silencing him.

"Shhh. It's okay, Draco. We have seen what happened, and  _we_ have the power to make it known."

He nodded, forcing a gulp down his throat as he pulled her close, hugging her. He knew why _she'd_  apologized, now; understood it perfectly well, in fact.

They  _would_  make the forgotten truth of their world known. And those who refused to accept the knowledge—those like his father—would  _fall_ before them.


	14. Painful Adjustments

**Chapter Fourteen**

Painful Adjustments

Draco awoke, his head still pillowed against Hermione's thigh. Both of her hands were clasped around one of his and, as he looked up at her, he found her silver gaze fixed on the door to the tower.

"Good, you're awake," she said, her voice low.

She hadn't turned her head to look at him, nor had he stirred, so he couldn't help but wonder how she knew.

But then he felt a thrill zing through the pit of his stomach. There was some sense of urgency—he wasn't certain how he knew, but he was sensing it from her. No, no, that wasn't right. He wasn't sensing it  _from_  her, they were sharing the sensation, somehow.

"Something's coming," he whispered, shooting to his feet.

Hermione jumped up beside him, her arms slipping around him as he wobbled in place.

He groaned, putting a hand to his swimming head. "What the bloody hell? I was fine a moment ago."

"Remember it took me about three days to adjust? I think it'll probably be quicker for you—since you took it from me and not the unicorn—but we  _can't_ stay here with you in this state. If they see you like this, they'll think I forced this on you."

He laughed tiredly as he stood and draped an arm around her shoulders, allowing her to support at least a portion of his weight. "Where are we going to go? We're in a  _warded_  tower."

"The warded tower of a castle that had all its magical defenses stripped during the Battle—your father is trying to rebuild them, but he hasn't had the time, or the energy, to protect every part of the castle against  _everything_ it used to be, just yet." She spoke quickly, her words tumbling out in a rushed whisper as she guided him into the stairwell that led up to the boys' dormitories.

"How can you know that?" He couldn't help being mystified at her certainty.

"I can feel it from the air, is all." She turned her head to exchange a quick glance with him as they moved. "It's really strange, but I'm not sure. It's like explaining how to breathe. Once you know how to understand the energy around you, it'll simply work."

Draco cast a quick look about, before speaking to no one in particular. "C'mon, understanding . . . . Any time now, that'd be great, thanks."

Hermione laughed in spite of their serious situation as she shook her head.

She couldn't account for how fast Lucius and Narcissa could act as a unit—Narcissa could possibly get through the door the  _moment_  her husband dispelled the ward. They couldn't be out here in the open like this. The last thing they needed just now would be for either of the Malfoys to catch a glimpse of their  _silver-eyed_  son before she and Draco could pop out of sight.

"Granger," Draco said, wondering how he was managing to keep his thoughts straight at all with the way the stairwell kept whirling around him, "What  _is_  the plan?"

If she meant for them to hide under a bed, or something . . . . But then, he reflected with an inward chuckle as she pulled him into the first dorm room they reached, that was one of those notions that was  _so_  stupid, it just might work.

"Your father's dispelling the ward as we speak. The moment it's done, we'll Apparate . . . back to the forest manor, if you can make it that far.  _He_  doesn't know where it actually is, after all."

He nodded, remembering the only reason they, and Potter, had not risked Apparating into the castle, itself, when sneaking in was the loads of dark witches and wizards crawling about the place, and the uncertainty of knowing who might be present wherever they popped up.

But then swayed on his feet.

"Oh, dear," Hermione said, backpedaling with her arms still around him to pull him with her until they were supported by the wall behind them. "Okay, you  _can't_  make it that far."

They felt the snap of energy in the air around them and he understood—the ward had been dispelled.

Her eyes shot wide as she met his gaze, an idea striking. "We'll need to go somewhere closer. But we need to move  _now_. Ready?"

Swallowing hard, he nodded.

* * *

Harry watched from the corridor as Lucius dispelled the ward. He couldn't recall a time he'd felt so useless. He'd already cast a Confundus charm twice on the man to trip him up, anything more and he risked giving himself away.

But then he saw the way Narcissa hung behind her husband's shoulder. She wanted to go in there, he thought, but she was also likely fearful of what she might find.

That scream of Draco's . . . it had sounded like someone was murdering him in there.

Taking the opportunity, he crept around them as they undid the ward. He pressed himself to the wall beside the portrait, waiting for the moment the entryway would pop open. He had no idea what he'd do when he got in there, but he had no idea what Draco's scream meant, and he couldn't leave Hermione to face the Malfoys alone in her condition.

As the ward fell away, and the passageway opened, Harry slipped in and hurried to one side so the Malfoy's wouldn't trip over him as they ran in. He drew his wand, but as he faced into the common room, he found the place empty.

Frowning, he looked about, watching as the Malfoys scanned the room, the same confused expression on each of their faces.

As he watched them head toward the staircase to the girls' dormitory in their search, he moved to follow.

_Harry . . . ._

He halted, looking about, again. "Hermione?" he whispered.

_I left the cloak I was wearing in the first room of the boys' wing. Go get it and leave by the castle's main doors. Mr. Malfoy will most likely have his people comb the castle as soon as he confirms that we're not hiding somewhere in the tower. We need to give them a false lead._

He frowned, but moved to the boys' dormitory wing. "Where are you? Are . . . ?" He had no idea what the blood was doing to her, but after Thayer's story, he realized it was unwise to underestimate what she could do, now. "Are you talking in my head?"

She laughed.  _No, stupid. I'm using the lines of energy left from the magic around the tower to create sound close to your ears._

Harry couldn't help pausing in mid-stride as he reached the dormitory corridor. "How did you even know how to do that?"

_I've no idea. And this is hardly the time to chat about it, either. I just wanted to talk to you, and suddenly, I_ was _._

Stepping into the first room, he found the cloak in a heap on the floor. He heard footfalls in the stairwell—the Malfoys would be there any moment. He snatched up the bundle of black fabric, tucking it beneath the folds of his Invisibility Cloak, just before stepping out the door and hopping out of their way.

He took advantage of the time their continued search offered and bolted down the staircase to the common room. "Where are you?"

_In the Room of Requirement. It was as far as we could go with Draco like this_.

Harry would have stopped short, again, if not for the fact that each moment he stalled was another moment he risked them catching him. He thought perhaps it was only the pounding of his heart against his rib cage that kept him moving toward the door.

"What do you mean? What's wrong with Malfoy?" He repressed the urge to chuckle—this was hardly the time for humor, but he  _never_ imagined himself inquiring about Draco Malfoy's well-being.

_It's . . . it's probably better if I explain when you get here_.

He didn't like the sound of that one little bit, but then he supposed there wasn't much he could do about it, just now. His best friend was using magic in a way he couldn't begin to understand simply to hold this conversation with him, he wasn't about to start an argument with the girl.

"I'll be there in just a few minutes, I promise," he said, hurtling himself down the stone staircase toward the main floor as fast as he could without stumbling.

* * *

Narcissa fretted as they finished their sweep of the last room. Wringing her hands, she frowned darkly. The sound of her son screaming like that was still bouncing around in her head.

"Where could they have gone?" Honestly, with that terrible wail, she couldn't help but think something had  _taken_ them, but that was preposterous—nothing could have gotten past Lucius' ward.

Lucius shrugged, huffing in anger as he turned on a heel and stormed from the room. His son was missing for the second time,  _and_ his silver girl was missing.

"This castle is full of more secrets than even Dumbledore, himself, knew and Granger and Potter were all over this tower when they were students. There's probably a hidden passage somewhere!" He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid to leave the girl unattended. Here he was, worried for his son and now . . . .

_Now_  all evidence pointed to his son helping her escape.

"They  _knew_ the ward would be dispelled, sooner or later," he said, his voice reduced to a hissing mutter. " _All_ they had to do was get to the passage and wait. Bloody hell. That scream was probably a trick to get us to drop the ward!"

His wife cast a curious glance around as they exited the stairwell and made their way through the common room. She was afraid to admit to him that she liked the scenario he'd just proposed—it meant Draco was unharmed. "Where do you think that passage would be?"

" _No_  idea, my heart, and we'd only waste time searching." He was livid by the time they were on the landing outside the empty portrait, his pale complexion flushed a terrible red shade. "Wake _everyone_! Have them search this castle, top-to-bottom. I want every passage explored, every door opened, every room searched.  _No one_  rests until Draco and Miss Granger are found!"

Narcissa's footfalls slowed as she trailed her husband down the steps. She could only stare at the back of his head as they moved, her throat tight and unexpected—uncharacteristic, horribly unladylike—tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

Was it possible? Would Lucius hurt Draco if he thought the boy had done something to get in the way of his precious prophecy?

* * *

Harry's feet hit the main floor with a dull thud—he was only happy no one else was about to hear it. Chancing a quick look around, he didn't see anyone, yet, but he trusted Hermione's judgement. It made sense that it wouldn't be long before there was a legitimate search party of dark witches and wizards formed to find her and Draco.

Dropping Hermione's cloak on the wide, stone tiles, he spun around and headed across the floor. As he passed the Great Hall, he  _refused_  to let himself look inside. He doubted Kreacher had been moved, yet, and he couldn't be certain he wouldn't be tempted to do something that might give himself away—like stopping to search for something to cover the poor, crumbled elf.

Shaking his head, he rushed on. He could already hear commotion from the upper levels. Reaching the darkest recesses of the main floor, he slowed his pace, catching his breath as he closed his eyes.

Coming to a halt, he pleaded silently for the Room to show itself.

When he opened his eyes, the large, polished wood door had appeared before him. His shoulders drooped as he breathed a sigh of relief. Hogwarts was still on their side, after all.

Glancing about the corridor as he reached to open the door, he whispered to the castle with a smile, "Never should have doubted you."

As he closed the door—sealing the room behind him—Harry found himself in a duplicate of the bedroom in the forest manor. Hermione sat on the bed, clasping Draco's hand. Draco was curled onto his side in a fitful-looking sleep, his eyes squeezed shut.

A look of relief flitted across her features as she saw Harry coming toward them. She stood up from the bed, but clung to Draco's hand as her best friend stepped up and scooped her into a bone-crushing hug.

"Harry, I'm so glad you're okay!"

After everything, it felt better to hear her talking like herself than he could possibly find words for. "Told you, I'm always okay."

Pulling back, she smiled at him. "You did."

He couldn't  _not_  notice how she went on holding Draco's hand, clinging to him, really. Despite that  _he_  was there, despite that she could hold onto  _him_ , now.

A terrible chill wound through the pit of Harry's stomach as he considered what that meant. "Hermione . . . . What's wrong with him?"

Hermione gave a worried pout before she opened her mouth to speak, "Well, Harry, you need to understand that I didn't expect him to—"

"I'm fine, actually, Potter," Draco said, his tone hollow in an eerie way that sounded almost like Hermione's had just the day before. "I'm only . . . adjusting."

Harry blinked a few times in rapid succession as he watched Malfoy's pained face. "Why don't I like the sound of that?"

"Because nobody's going to like it, but it's what _had_  to be done."

Harry thought he felt his heart fall into his stomach. Draco opened forced his lids open and Harry found himself staring into eyes the same, unsettling silver as Hermione's.


	15. Fated Failings

**Chapter Fifteen**

Fated Failings

"He meant well," Hermione said with a shrug, frowning as she tightened her fingers over Draco's. He still hadn't moved, yet, though his eyes—his  _silver_  eyes—were open, and he was responding to them. Already he seemed to be adjusting to the blood faster than Hermione had.

Just as she'd said was likely.

Harry sat on her other side, clasping her free hand in both of his. He still didn't fully understand all that had happened while they'd been separated—it had only been  _one_ , bloody, day, after all!—but he was relieved that Hermione was acting much more like herself than he'd witnessed since this began.

How their lives had gone  _so_  sideways in a handful of days was beyond him.

"It was only because I screamed that we had to run," Draco said, his tone so low from exhaustion Harry was surprised they could hear him. "If that hadn't happened, if I hadn't been such a mess, they might have listened. They might've seen reason. But with how it would have seemed—"

"So . . . if I have this straight . . . ." Harry paused, taking one hand from hers and rubbing the tips of his fingers against his aching forehead. "You thought they'd be kinder to her if you shared her condition?"

"That was the hope, anyway. But after it actually happened, I realized they would have turned on her, because of how it looked." Draco nodded, a weak smile on his lips. "I was trying to be noble."

Harry couldn't help himself as he shrugged, smirking. "First time for everything, I suppose."

Laughing, Hermione let her head fall down against her best friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Harry."

He turned his face to look at her. "For what?" he asked, wide-eyed and confused. "Nothing that's happened has been your fault."

Offering a half-nod, she said, "Well, yes, that I understand, but . . . . It's like every plan we tried to make failed. We used to be better at this, didn't we?"

Harry turned his face away, his gaze dancing over the walls of the Room of Requirement as he thought on her words. "Actually . . . ." He couldn't help but laugh. "No. We've been bloody horrible at it. We planned things, and sure, they'd go wrong, somewhere, but we'd just find a way to go with it. That things  _happened_ to work in our favor was just sheer, dumb luck."

Another laugh sounded from her, but was just as quickly quieted by Draco's low, thoughtful words as he said, "Maybe it  _wasn't_ luck."

Leaning around Hermione, Harry met Draco's gaze. "What do you mean?"

The other young man blinked tiredly a few times before he answered. "Well, what if failing at what you  _planned_ was the only way to succeed at what you  _needed_ to do?"

"Like it was fate," Hermione said softly.

Draco nodded. "Like it was fate," he echoed, his voice edged by that same crystalline sound, same as hers.

"It makes sense, actually." Harry nodded, chewing on his bottom lip a moment as thought. "I mean, you get struck with this malady, not only did you survive, but you've gotten stronger. But it happens so close to the one person who knows  _anything_  about it?"

She couldn't help a derisive snort at that. "So all of this was  _supposed_ to happen this way?"

"Well, I don't know if this precise way is it,  _but_  . . . ." He met her gaze, his brow furrowing behind the wire rims of his glasses. "But you're supposed to be here. You're supposed to confront Lucius Malfoy and whatever comes of  _that_  is what's supposed to be."

Hermione bit the inside of her lip, silver eyes welling suddenly as she shook her head.

"Hermione?" Harry was in a panic that he'd upset her, suddenly. "I'm sorry. What's—what'd I say wrong?"

"Harry, if . . . . If you're right, doesn't that mean that everyone we lost was _supposed_ to die to bring this about? I'm not sure I can handle that."

Draco shifted, trying to sit up, and she released both of their hands as she whirled to face him, fully. Slipping her hands beneath his shoulders to help him, she fretted.

"Draco, what are you doing? You shouldn't—"

"Potter doesn't mean everyone was supposed to die."

The two watching him so cautiously exchanged a surprised glance.

"He meant was this is what has to be  _because_ everyone died, not that everyone died  _to_  make this happen." He shrugged weakly. "If your friends had lived, this  _probably_  wouldn't have happened to you in the first place, right?"

She nodded, sniffling.

"There you go."

"Never thought Draco would back up something that came from me," Harry said with a grin.

Draco smirked, parroting back Harry's earlier sentiment. "First for everything, I suppose."

"So then all that's left to do now . . . ." Her voice trailed off as the silver in her eyes gleamed—a quick flaring of light, but Harry noticed it. More troublingly, he saw it reflected in Malfoy's eyes, as well. "Is to finish it."

"Wait, wait." Harry held up his hand in a gesture of caution. "What, exactly, is going to happen when you face the Malfoys?"

"We're only going to speak." Hermione's expression was grave as she lifted her chin. "We're going to tell them the truth of what they thought they knew, nothing more."

"Our voices will do the rest," Draco tacked on, his face grim, to match hers.

"I really don't understand," Harry said, looking from Hermione, to Draco, and back. "Please explain this to me."

Hermione met his gaze, holding it for a time as she remained silent. Shifting forward, she pressed her lips to his. Before he could react, she leaned back again, her eyes sad as she cupped her hand to his cheek.

"I'm so glad I  _know_ you're going to be spared," she said in a whisper. "As we say. We're going to speak, nothing more. But our voices. These strange voices we have . . . . They will tear open the memories resting within their  _pure_  blood. Our voices will show them that what we say is true. And then—"

"It will be over," Draco said, his gaze distant as he nodded. "Those who . . . those who survive will share what happened here. The rightful memories will spread in a way that will spare lives, not rend them. Our work will be done."

Harry's eyes shot wide. "Wait! So you're telling me your voices are going to  _kill_  people?"

She looked to Draco before answering. "Only those who refuse to change."

He turned his attention to Draco, as well. "Your parents might die, and  _you'll_  be the one to do it."

"Potter, this is what has to happen. There  _is_ no other way."

"Isn't there?" Harry couldn't believe he was having this argument with Draco Malfoy, of all people in the Wizaring world.

"No! After all this death, all this chaos? Our words—the  _only_ truth that's ever mattered—is the only way to set things right. Things  _have_  to start new!" He shook his head, frowning sadly. "The only ones who can carry on the legacy of our world are those willing to accept what really happened. The ones _willing_ to change."

Harry squeezed Hermione's hand, forcing himself to understand what he was hearing. "That's why you spared Thayer."

She nodded.

He didn't want to ask, but after his conversation with the  _very_ -recently-reformed Dark wizard, he  _had_  to know the truth. "Did you kill Fenrir?"

Hermione shook her head. "That was Mr. Malfoy." She glanced at Draco. "Sorry, I'd rather you not hear it this way, but he did. I remember clearly, now."

Draco's expression was blank. "I've always known what that man was capable of," he said, his hollow voice soft.

"Mr. Malfoy thought he only needed one of us to fulfill his silly prophecy." She rolled her eyes as a humorless laugh escaped her. "He kept me, and disposed of my  _lesser_. His words, not mine. Although . . . ." Hermione shrugged, and both young men nodded in agreement.

"Okay, that's another thing—what  _is_  this prophecy?"

"In the time of greatest need—" She started.

"In the time of saddest destruction," Draco continued. "Those of the silver eyes will again walk amongst us."

"Carrying within them our greatest secret, so long forgotten."

A chill ran down Harry's spine as Draco and Hermione looked at each other, speaking the final line in unison, those crystalline voices mingling. "Their knowledge will reshape the world."

He forced a gulp down his throat as he nodded. "Tell me."

Blinking, Hermione shook her head, seeming to orient herself. "I'm sorry, tell you what?"

Harry's brows shot up into his shaggy hair. "This  _great_  secret."

She frowned. "Promise not to act any differently toward me once you know."

A confused frown pulled at his lips. "What?"

"Just promise," she insisted.

"Fine." He really didn't understand what she was getting huffy about with everything going on around them. "I promise not to treat you any differently after I hear it."

Nodding, she exchanged a quick glance with Draco, and then started talking.

* * *

"Here!" One of the witches ran up to Narcissa, a dark cloak in her arms.

Narcissa took the cloak, looking from the other witch, to the bundle of fabric, and back. She was almost certain this was the same cloak Miss Granger had worn when last they'd seen her.

"Where did you find this?"

"Right inside the castle's entrance."

Nodding, Lady Malfoy didn't even bother with a word of thanks as she whirled on her heel and started for where she'd left Lucius' side. He and a few of the wizards had torn the Gryffindor common room to shreds, already, and were now examining the brickwork along the staircases to the dormitories. He was determined to find their escape route as the others scoured the lower floors.

"Lucius," she said his name in a hissing whisper, leaning around the bend in the wall that led into the stairwell. "Lucius!"

Shoulders slumping, he glanced at her. "Yes, my heart?"

She held up the cloak. "Look!"

Frowning thoughtfully, he stepped away from his examination. He descended the steps, eyeing the cloak. "Is that—?"

"I believe. It was found discarded by the doors. I think—"

"They've left the castle!" Expression souring—how much time had they lost looking  _inside_ —he bolted down the stairs and past his wife.

The men who'd been assisting his search looked to her in question.

Delicate eyebrows drawing up in surprise, she stepped back and made a shooing gesture. "Well, go! Assist your Lord!"

"Of course, Milady," one of them said, as they all nodded and scurried out to follow Lucius.

Sighing, she shook her head. Draping the cloak over the sofa, she gingerly seated herself on one of the plush cushions and folded her arms. Honestly, part of her had thought it folly to show the discovery to Lucius.

But then, she feared him learning of it, learning she  _knew_  of it, later on. She puzzled over her own response. She didn't want him to find Miss Granger. She wanted him to find Draco, but if the two were so insistent on staying together, it was unlikely Lucius would find one without the other.

Biting her lip, she looked toward the window. She couldn't believe what she was thinking, even as the whispered words escaped her.

"I wish we had never  _won_."

As soon as she'd spoken, she jerked, looking about the room. Her shoulders drooped in relief as she confirmed that there was no one around to hear her.

The last thing she needed now was anyone reporting her sentiment to Lucius. But she could not help herself. Winning the War felt less and less like a victory with every passing hour.

* * *

Harry gaped at Hermione. He expected her to look angry, or sad, or . . . something. But no, she simply sat there, staring at him, awaiting  _his_ reaction.

"Oh, my God!" He finally managed, scooping both of her hands into his. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. All those times that everyone—"

"Stop it," she said with a small laugh. "I said no differently!"

"You're right, of course." He shook his head, frowning. "Sorry, sorry. It's just . . . it's a lot to take in."

There was a moment of silence between the three of them as the silver-eyed ones let him take some more time with what they'd just told him. Shaking his head, he turned to look at Malfoy. Draco watched him with the same subdued, expectant look Hermione had. Already, though, the color—well, what little color he normally had—was back in his cheeks, his gaze was clearer, and he was sitting up straight on his own strength.

As though Hermione had somehow refined the process within herself, making his transition quicker.

"Your parents won't be able to accept this." He was starting to believe them—there _was_  no other way—but he still couldn't grasp that Draco was okay with losing his parents after everything they'd all been through. "They  _won't_  be able to change. You know that!"

Draco nodded, swallowing hard as he forced a smile. "I have to hope that maybe they can."

Hermione and Draco shot to their feet as one, startling Harry.

"What—what is it?"

"They've left the castle," Hermione said, her gaze on the door.

Draco nodded again. "We have to move now."

Harry jumped up to follow them. "Move where?"

"The Great Hall," Hermione and Draco—unnervingly—answered as one.

Before Harry could respond, she turned to face him, catching one of his hands in hers. "It's time. And it has to be there."

Draco opened the door, speaking over his shoulder. "They'll all hear us. Every single one of them."


	16. The Only Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this story. You've been wonderful!
> 
> (I apologize if the ending seems abrupt at all, this was just how the plunnie played out in my head as the story drew to a close)

**Chapter Sixteen**

The Only Truth

The very first thing which told Lucius something was not quite right upon returning to the castle was the body of Potter's servant. It had  _still_ been on the floor in the Great Hall, no one had bothered to move it.

Yet now, he'd nearly tripped over it in the foyer. So close to the doors that the sheet which had been draped over the creature caught on the heel of Lucius' shoe.

He exchanged a look with Narcissa, who was just coming down the main stairs to meet the search party—the  _unsuccessful_  search party. Her delicate eyebrows shot up, but she remained silent.

He couldn't explain why she would have done this, but he still needed to ask, "Is this your doing?"

His wife only shook her head, her expression mystified. "Why would it be?"

At her words—and the confused looks on his followers faces—a cold sneer twisted his lips. "This is a message." He looked to the closed doors of the Great Hall.

The doors which had quite distinctly been open when they'd left the castle to search the grounds for his son and the girl. Arching a brow, his said with a mirthless grin, "Potter's _here_."

Stomping across foyer and up the short flight of steps toward the entrance of the Great Hall, he waved his hand, sending the enormous doors flying open. Wand at the ready, he stalked inside. He'd had just about  _enough_  of surprises, as of late.

Yet as soon as he laid eyes upon the dais, whatever spell he might've uttered died on his lips.

Potter  _was_  there. He stood on one side of the gilded chair, and his son—oh,  _no_ , why did Draco's eyes look like that?—on the other. Miss Granger was seated between them, delicate hands draped over the armrests, and her posture as painfully perfect as when she'd stood in that dungeon cell.

His lips pulled back from his teeth in an angry and truly menacing expression as he started to raise his arm, again. Yet it was Narcissa who stepped forward.

Defenseless—her wand arm hanging limp at her side—she approached, her head shaking. "Draco . . . what happened to you?"

Holding his mother's sad gaze caused Draco's heart to squeeze in his chest, yet, he knew it  _had_  to be this way. "I made a choice," he said, swallowing hard.

"And your  _choice_  was them over us, was it?" Father's voice was harsh and unforgiving as he spat the question.

"My choice was the good of . . .  _everything_  over whatever lunacy you have planned!"

"Draco." Narcissa drew closer, still. She was half-way across the wide room before she spoke again. "You did this to yourself?"

His lips folded inward as he nodded. "I did."

"Oh, dear Merlin, why?" She could see clearly now that his eyes looked  _exactly_  like Miss Granger's. Her strength fled her for a moment and the very act of breathing hurt for a blinding, terrible second.

What  _had_  Lucius' madness wrought?

She crumbled to her knees, her gaze dropping to the floor to hide the tears in her eyes.

Something happened, then. Even from his place just inside the entrance, Lucius could see both his son's eyes, and Miss Granger's, spark. A signal had passed between them, he was certain of it.

Draco nodded to nothing—nothing  _aloud_ , anyway—and stepped from the dais. Upon reaching his mother, he lowered to the floor in front of her.

He crooked a finger beneath her chin, forcing her damp gaze to meet his. "I did it because you  _had_ to see. You have to know how wrong things have gone. Everything. It needs to be righted, and this is the only way, now."

Her son's hollow, crystalline voice hurt her ears, but she didn't care. Lower lip trembling, she raised a hand, cupping his cheek. "What do I do, Draco? I never wanted this madness—"

"Narcissa!"

The pair in the center of the room went on, as though Lucius hadn't just let out an angry bark.

"You come over here, with us." He smiled gently. "You accept that things can change."

The most disturbing thing, in Lucius' view, was the serene smile that crept onto the silver girl's lips. She approved of Draco's decision. Approved of Narcissa  _betraying_ him! He would have thought the girl at least appreciated loyalty.

"Narcissa," he barked again, even as Draco ignored him and turned, slipping an arm around Narcissa's shoulders and helping her to her feet.

"I don't . . . . I don't know that I can," Narcissa whispered, her head shaking.

Harry, in a startling show of solidarity, hurried from Hermione's side to get a chair for the elder witch. Draco nodded his thanks as he guided his mother to sit.

Hermione turned her head, catching Narcissa's gaze. She and Draco spoke as one as they said, "You are willing to try."

Narcissa and Harry winced. The young man snapped his head toward the doors, seeing motion from the corner of his eye. Lucius had a hand pressed to his ear.

"In the beginning, magic was all around us, yet not gifted to man," Hermione and Draco said, turning their attention to the group at the entrance, as well.

Lucius blinked hard, pulling his hand from his ear. Harry closed his eyes and looked away from the flash of crimson, plainly visible, even from across the room.

"So prevalent was it that man—arrogant to a fault, even when primitive—assumed magical creatures no different from any other."

Harry felt the pain at the base of his spine . . . but it was bearable. Like a spike through the back of his skull, true, but he could  _manage_. In the chair beside Hermione's, he could see Narcissa bent over, holding her head in her hands.

"In a time so long ago the tragedy has been forgotten, man hunted the unicorn."

Lucius' face curled into a livid expression as he kept his gaze locked on the girl and his son. Was this the  _great secret_  he'd so wanted?

It was sad to him that in a corner of his mind, a voice laughed. The arrogance of man had set whatever this was into motion. And  _his_  arrogance had brought it to fruition.

He felt as though he was being stabbed in the back of the skull. Little pinpricks of cold and agony threaded his veins and ran along his skin.

Distantly he could hear his followers making terrible noises. Sounds of anguish as they backed through the doors, hoping to escape the images unfolding in their minds' eyes.

"Long before the curse of the half-life, man consumed the sacred flesh like that of any other beast."

Harry rounded the back of Hermione's chair. He couldn't bring himself to cross in front of Hermione and Draco. He'd seen the way their silver eyes gleamed now as they spoke in halting sentences—seeming to glow a glittering white—as a sharp iciness worked its way through his body.

As he reached the other side, he carefully lowered himself to sit beside Narcissa's seat. A strange parallel of the moment in the Forest when she'd lied for him, he thought. Reaching an stinging hand up, he slipped his fingers over hers.

She turned her head to meet his gaze as she let him hold her hand, her tears flowing freely, now.

Harry couldn't help a wince—despite his own discomfort—at the sight of crimson dripping from Narcissa's ears. Just the faintest trickle, though. Nothing so severe as the rivulets from Lucius'.

Their hollow voices gained strength, rising from a whispered shout to thunderous roar so quickly the change startled Harry and Narcissa. "Man's  _mastery_  over magic arose from this terrible moment. Raw, uncontrolled, unrefined. You were supposed to bring about your own destruction for such a transgression!" Hermione and Draco shook their heads as one as they continued. "But you adapted. You learned. Through the ages, magic became a force for good. But . . . you also  _forgot_."

Snarling, Lucius could no longer hold his own weight, their words—the memories he watched—pressed upon him. He hit the floor hard on his knees, but he fought to stay upright.

"You crafted implements to focus and hone your magic as its strength began to dwindle. Occasionally producing those who were  _correct_ , once more. Those who did not possess magic. Yet, you came to view those newly  _perfect_  humans with scorn."

Harry could swear he heard their crystalline voices clogging with tears as the two forced themselves to continue. Their volume climbed, yet again, a howling wind kicking up from nowhere to accompany their words.

"Magic sought to correct the mistakes of man, once more."

"No!" Lucius struggled to his feet. He pressed forward,  _refusing_  to accept what he was seeing.

"Those bloodlines untouched by man's tragic mistake began to produce those able to control magic."

Narcissa's slender frame shook, and Harry forced his aching body closer to slip his arms around her shoulders and hold her steady.

"Those who were  _pure_  of blood. They were meant to guide the descendants back into harmony with their ill-gotten magic."

Lucius couldn't breathe. He sank to his knees once more, dropping his wand to the floor as he continued to stare at the dais. Unblinking, droplets of crimson trickled from the corners of his eyes. He could hear screams throughout the castle, he damn well wished they'd shut up! Their pathetic whines only added to his own discomfort.

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance. His expression was resigned, while hers was unsurprised. Even now, his concern was for himself above all else. Nodding to each other, they looked toward the man before them, again. To the shining example of everything that had gone so very wrong with the balance of magic within the world

"Those of the tainted blood refused to accept the pure-blooded witches and wizards, labeling them a name that reflected what they, themselves, were.  _Dirty blooded_. You dare cast judgments when you would have the world under your heel after all the horror those like  _you_  have inflicted upon it!"

Hitting the floor with his full weight, Lucius could  _feel_  the slowing of his heart. By the time he realized he couldn't breath, he was too weak even to panic, anymore.

"Your world must end." The wind dissipated and their strange voices dropped back to those loud, mingled whispers as they said, "It must  _die_  with you."

The pain faded in a flash—so quick, Harry lost his balance, falling to the floor beside Narcissa's chair. His breathing frantic, he ran his hands over his face, the sides of his neck.  _Nothing_ —he'd not bled, not even a little.

Draco spun, his eyes strangely dim as he dropped down in front of his mother. Narcissa trembled at his touch, but raised her head. Smiling weakly, she met his gaze.

"I am all right, Draco," she said, her murmured voice sad. She slipped her hands over his. "Your father . . . ." She looked past her son's shoulder to the sight of her husband, such a sad figure crumbled on the floor. "He was not as terrible as all of this made him seem."

"Mother . . . ."

"He loved us, after all, didn't he?"

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance—he could see now, in her darker eyes, why Draco's seemed less bright. The silver had receded, leaving a thin, solid band around her pupil, and the outer edge of her iris, but the center was that familiar chestnut-brown he'd grown up seeing.

His best friend's face had pulled into a sad expression at Narcissa Malfoy's tone. He may not have been a good person, but Lucius was her husband, and she had loved him.

"He did," Draco said, sniffling as he nodded. Now that it was over, he could feel the anguish at what had come to pass—at the notion that his father was gone. Perhaps it was better to think the War had killed the Lucius Malfoy he knew. "But he loved the thought of power, more."

Narcissa nodded, her watery, pale-blue eyes drifting closed as she pressed her forehead to her son's.

Harry climbed to his feet, giving mother and son a moment as he rounded them to stand before Hermione. She sat in Dumbledore's chair, still, staring up at him.

Without waiting for her to speak, his slid his fingers around her wrists and pulled her up, into a hug. The sound of her surprised laugh as she slipped her arms around him to hug him back forced a wash of relief to ripple through him.

She was Hermione, again. Only Hermione.

He pulled back, meeting her gaze. "So what's the plan, Miss Pure-Blood?"

A gasp tore from Narcissa's throat as she bolted upright in her seat. Draco started as Harry and Hermione turned their attention to his mother.

"Oh, God, Miss Granger!" The pale-haired witch shot to her feet, but wobbled a little, silently grateful when her son caught her by the elbow and set her right. "I am so  _terribly_  sorry. I had no . . . . How could I have known?"

Hermione smiled, happier than she could find words for that their part in this was over. "It's really okay. I didn't know, either."

"But there's still the question," Draco said, reaching over to claim Hermione's hand. "What do we do next?"

Shoulders drooping, Hermione wondered just how it was that she came to be in charge—and of such a strange little group, no less.

"Well, you and I both know there are survivors in the castle."

Draco nodded.

Harry looked from one to the other. He blatantly ignored their linked hands. After all, hadn't she kissed _him_  in the Room of Requirement, and Draco hadn't batted a silver eye? But then he wasn't oblivious to the way Hermione and Draco looked at one another, and they'd been alone for nearly two days. Who knew what had gone on in his absence, what with her condition being the way it was?

He held in a sigh.  _That_  bit of drama could wait for another day. "You do?" he asked, focusing on the moment at hand. "How?"

Again, Draco nodded. "We can feel them," he said.

"So we find them, and we leave here. All of us."

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance before he took over explaining. "They'll spread the truth. The first memory was the most painful, those that follow will be easier. More will accept, and because of that, they'll survive and pass it on.  _And_  our power is still here, it's just ebbed, for now. But if we _need_  it, it'll return."

"First . . . ." She turned her head, deliberately directing their collective attention to Lucius' body. "We have to bury them. They deserve that decency, at least."

Harry bit his lip to hold in a protest. He wasn't so certain they did—not  _all_ of them, anyway. But then, he supposed, wasn't this was what the  _good guys_  were supposed to do? Show kindness when it wasn't deserved. Perhaps  _especially_  when it wasn't deserved.

"Thank you," Narcissa said, nodding as she smiled sadly. She wished this hadn't played out as it had, but she knew Lucius wasn't going to allow himself to live in a world he would consider  _so_ very  _backward_.

"After that, we'll do what Kreacher was going to do. Go to the safe houses, look for our friends who might've survived the Battle." She shrugged, shaking her head in disbelief. "It's only been  _four days_!"

"We're all going to do this? The four of us?" Narcissa's eyebrows had shot up her forehead, but her inquiry was echoed in Draco's expression.

"Of course," Hermione said, smiling as she met Draco's gaze, her fingers squeezing his gently. "Not going anywhere without you."

**THE END**


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